Deceit for Desire
by selly-is-dead
Summary: Chris happens across a girl at the comic shop and can't get her out of his head. Unfortunately for her that's a -very bad thing-. Based off the comic-verse. ChrisGxOC. Rating for: strong language, sexuality, and creepy stalking/pseudo-romance!
1. Caught My Eye

**AN**: Characters are based off their comic book incarnations, not the movie. Rating for extremely foul language and sexuality. Warning: Chris is a giant evil bastard.

**AN#2**: Can't link in stories, so. Picture of my OC with the Motherfucker as drawn by my glorious room mate in my profile. It's from a much later scene in the story, but still. References.

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><p><strong><em><span>Genovese<span>_**

I remember the first day I met her – way back before any of the super hero and super villain shit, before I decided to stop being a pissy little bitch, before I grew a pair. I say met – that makes it sound so fucking stupid. Fuck, let me start over.

The first day I saw her was some shitty day in September. It was pretty fucking cold outside, raining like a bitch – one of those gray days everyone wanted to stay home for. My bodyguard, Marco, was more than a little pissed off about me dragging his sorry ass to the comic shop. Not that he was ever happy, but you could tell he was really, _really_ fouled up that day, his cheeks all hot and his eyes narrowed to slits. Course, I didn't give a shit – beyond a few private laughs at his expense.

My old man was still around back then, still running the show, still so sure of the fact that his fucked up son would forever be a pussy. Fuck. I hadn't shown him what I could be, yet – wasn't fucking _amazing _yet.

Kick Ass had only been around a week or so, but it was enough time for them to fucking deck the goddamn walls with shitty hand-made fan shirts. You know the kind: those iron-on ones where the image cracks and tears about five minutes after the thing's made. Assholes who never looked twice at comics were shitting up the place, eager to get their hands around Kick Ass's dick. I hated the bastard even then, and the only joy I found in the whole situation was knowing he wasn't getting a goddamn dime off the sales of those shirts.

Anyway.

I was rummaging through the new arrivals when I heard the door to the shop open, the bells they had tied from the bar tinkling. I had started coming during school hours to avoid the slavering Kick Ass fan boys, and I felt anger rising at the thought of someone intruding in _my _shop on _my _fucking time_._

I lifted my gaze from the issue in my hands to catch the newcomer's, fully intent on being a rude fuck, knowing _very_ well management wouldn't give a damn.

I wasn't expecting a fucking girl.

It wasn't like chicks didn't come in ever. They did_, _more than you'd think, anyway. I mean, they were usually fat ugly cunts, but they were girls. There was the occasional hot one, but if they weren't hanging off the arm of some asshole, they had a goddamn superiority complex. _Look at me, I have fucking tits and I like comics._ Like they fucking expected you to worship at their feet, because they were some kind of rare commodity, some nerd holy grail. You could see it in the way they walked, _strutting_, hips everywhere, tits hiked up so you'd notice. I can't tell you how often I jacked off, thinking about how I'd love to put some of those sluts in their fucking place. I'd fuck that arrogance _right_ _out_ of them.

But this one was different, all stick-thin in a t-shirt that was too big for her, tied off at her waist - skinny jeans tattered with holes and a worn out pair of Chuck Taylors that looked like they'd been to fucking hell and back, all scuffed and dirty.

She really wasn't dressed for the weather. The shirt was something she could have gotten from a thrift store for fifty cents, and the jeans were thin as hell. The only thing she had to keep the cold away was some giant goddamn scarf. It looked new – the yarn plush looking even from where I stood. Handmade, probably.

She was younger than me – at first glance, I thought she was a fucking _kid_, but I could make out her tits beneath the shirt, just _barely_. Pretty small, and I couldn't help but smirk.

Her eyes met mine – electric green behind a tangle of red curls that spilled across her face and down her back. She smiled, the expression bright in her eyes. Her nose crinkled when she smiled, and I couldn't help but notice the smattering of freckles across her cheeks.

_Fucking cute._

I'd never seen her before. And anyone who frequents a comic book shop with any regularity learns the fucking regulars. I felt a scowl creeping over my face, replacing that smirk. My mood soured at the thought of her being there for that Kick Ass _prick_.

She studied me for a moment, the smile fading to something like curiosity. Shrugging her shoulders, she moved past me to the counter, her gaze fixed on the clerk who watched her with raised eyebrows. I got a whiff of something sweet – like flowers, or some kinda shit like that. Fucking girls.

"You ain't got school, kid?" The clerk, Rob, was a high school drop out, somewhere in his late twenties. He was probably my least favorite of the clerks that worked that shitty store, and I always remembered him for his acne scars and the way he smacked his fucking gum. Normally it was something that drove me fucking shit-faced with rage, but I barely noticed it that morning.

"Not right now," she answered him cheerfully, unwrapping her scarf from her neck, setting it on the glass counter between them. "Just moved and I'm not registered yet, and my aunt can't be bothered to right now." She jerked a thumb back in my direction, not bothering to look. "Did you harass him about it too, or are you just gonna victimize _me_?"

It was a smart-assed comment, but her tone was playful. Rob shook his head, smiling somewhat uncomfortably at her mention of me. "He's a regular. You ain't." His answer was tense; you could tell I made him fucking nervous. I felt that smirk returning at that hint of unease.

If she noticed, she didn't let on. "Well, maybe I'll end up a regular, yeah, bossman?" She paused to look around, her eyes falling on the Kick Ass display. I tensed, waiting for her to gush, my teeth grinding against each other.

She looked back to Rob, and I was mildly annoyed I couldn't see her face. "They're going on about him even back home," she said, conversationally, lowering her face to peer through the glass at the collection of dice.

"Back home? Where ya from?" Rob sounded genuinely interested, his eyes watching her intently. For some reason I wanted nothing more than to hit him until I split his face in half.

"Massachusetts," she said vaguely, drumming her fingers against the case, as if considering something.

"Really?" Rob slouched down closer to her, adjusting his ass on his stool. "I didn't know he was getting national coverage."

She had to know he was bullshitting, especially considering how fucking close Massachusetts is, but she lifted her head to him. "Yeah," she laughed after a moment, choosing to ignore it. "I mean, I guess it's pretty cool, him saving that guy from those other dudes. I kinda always wondered why no one did it before him."

I couldn't help but snort at her comment, and they both looked at me. Rob shook his head and ducked down, his face pale beneath the red smear of his zits. He knew who I fucking was, the shithead. But she met my eyes, fearless in her ignorance.

"That's cool if you don't like him," she began, her voice smooth and calm. "But that attitude is a bit much, yeah? I mean, you aren't out there doing what he's doing. It's gotta be pretty terrifying."

I admit I was a bit impressed with her ability to say snotty fucking things in that placid tone of voice, like she was trying to appeal to my better nature. Playing up to my guilt. _You _aren't a hero, Chris. It's what she was saying. But then she was fucking stupid for assuming I'd want to be one in the first place.

"Take your bleeding heart elsewhere, sweet heart. Not everyone wants to be some fucking douche in a shitty costume. He just doesn't have the balls to do it without the mask on." I didn't bother to keep the derision from my voice, feeling my lips stretch wide around my teeth in a mocking grin.

She was silent for a moment, merely watching me from under those soft curls. Finally, she uncrossed her arms and moved towards me, her head tilting to one side as she studied me.

"Most people stand by and let that crap happen around them, never moving to help anyone who needs it." As she drew closer, I could feel Marco tense beside me, see his jaw set in my peripheral vision. I knew that if she hadn't been a girl he would have introduced his fist to her face awhile ago. He was always a bit of a short tempered prick. "If he needs a mask for that kind of courage, so what?" So _fucking_ inspiring.

She stood only a few inches from me, looking up into my face with a strange sort of intensity. At least a head shorter than me, she was _really_ fucking _small_.

If I'm being goddamn honest, I didn't really know what to say to her. And that _infuriated _me. No one questioned _me. _Not even fucking cunts who didn't realize who I was. As she blinked at me, expectant, red lashes brushing her cheek, I wanted to hit her. My fingers ached to find their way around that skinny little neck of hers. I could imagine the noises she'd make, soft and whimpering. _Fuck. _The thought made me kinda dizzy.

Suddenly, she grinned at me, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "Look, I think we're getting off to the wrong foot here," she began, her tone apologetic. "I think what Kick Ass is doing is admirable, but if it helps..." She inclined her head in the direction of the shirts. "I think those _are_ pretty stupid."

It was essentially an apology, but I let the silence draw on, uncomfortable, my eyes burning into hers. One second became three, became five. And then, what I had wanted – that flicker of discomfort, the slightest flinch. For one fraction of a second, I saw that fearless determination waver. _Yes_. Fucking _victory_.

I returned her goddamn smile _then_, smooth like _ice_. Teeth and all. "No big deal," I shrugged, nonchalant. It was a good act, as always; a fucking fantastic _mask. _

Shifting her weight from one foot to another, she tried her luck again. "My name's Kylie. Kylie Rosario." Holding her hand out to me, she looked so hopeful, so full of _promise_. It was fucking adorable, really. "I really don't wanna start off on the wrong foot here, honest. It's the closest shop to my house. It'd really suck to have to go somewhere else 'cause of bad blood."

I waited only a moment this time before I took her hand, so much smaller than mine. My grip was firm, and I saw that smile falter some when I dug my fingers. "Chris _Genovese_," I said through my grin, holding onto her hand a few seconds too long. "A _pleasure_, really."

I saw her eyes raise questioningly from me to Marco, who regarded her with a nod of his head, his own eyes narrowed, his expression sour. "That's Marco," I smirked. "He's my... ah..." I paused for effect, rolling my eyes to the ceiling as if struggling with the word.

"Bodyguard," Marco responded, gruffly, crossing his arms across his broad fucking chest. _Perfect timing_.

Her eyes widened slightly, something like recognition in them. I smothered a chuckle when she took one small unsure step backwards. "Oh." It was all she could manage for a moment, her gaze darting between Marco and me. Slowly, fear began to creep into those fine, delicate features. I couldn't help myself, then. I started laughing.

The sound made all of them jump – though Marco recovered more quickly than the rest. I saw him straightening out his blazer, his gaze averted to the clock on the wall, feigning impatience to cover his slip.

Kylie took another step back, this one quite a bit bigger than the last. Holding her hands out before her in a gesture of surrender, she offered me a much weaker smile than before. "Well..." It was like she was struggling to find words, now, her voice high and tight. "I'm glad we've taken care of that. No problems, right?"

There was a pleading note to her voice that made me hard. I dug my hands into the pockets of my over coat, mildly displeased with its ability to hide that from her. Something about the idea of her noticing it excited me, thrilled me. Perhaps my dad was right about me being a sick bastard.

"Sure." I was the perfect gentleman. A gentleman who was already indulging in thoughts of pushing her against the counter - in front of _all_ of them - and taking her. _Fucking _her. Wondering just how much she'd _scream._

With a weak nod of her head, she turned a little too quickly back to Rob, crossing back towards the counter. "I actually wanted to know if you could do a special order for me. I doubt you have what I'm looking for, but it's kind of important." When she reached the counter, she leaned over it, ducking her head down. Her voice dropped to a whisper I couldn't hear.

I watched them, far more fascinated by her animated hand gestures and her tiny little waist than in the comics I saw every day. And I made no effort to disguise what I was doing, resting my elbows on the table behind me, my eyes burning into the back of her head.

There was no way she didn't notice me – there was a tension about her body that had been growing since she had deflated only minutes before. I know for fucking sure Rob noticed. He kept peeking over her shoulder like the scared little dick he was, avoiding my eyes like my gaze alone could kill him.

Eventually, though, Rob passed her a clipboard and a pen. She scribbled something on it, her hand flying across the paper. Cursive. I could make it out from where I stood. How old fashioned.

I expected her to try and slink out, avoiding eye contact the way the other shit-eating fucks in that shop always did. It was obvious she knew who I was now; that fear had been quite telling.

It was why I was so surprised when she turned back to me, her eyes seeking mine. She crossed the distance between us faster than she had fled across it.

That fearlessness was back – though I guess at that point you could have called it _bravery_ - and she reached for my hand, her fingers brushing mine in a gesture of familiarity. "You have a _great_ day, Chris," she chirped, like a fucking little _bird. _With a small wave, she was gone, the bells at the door ringing her departure. I watched her dart into the shadows of the street and vanish, aided by the gray autumn weather.

"Huh." It was Marco, his tone amused. "Spunky kid, touching _you_ like that."

Ignoring him, I fixed my eyes on Rob who looked vaguely nauseous. Guy was always a fucking pussy. Pushing myself off the shelf, I swaggered over to him, propping both my arms on the counter. He looked like he was about to shit himself.

"What'd she write down?" My tone was practiced, casual, but I didn't bother prefacing it with anything. The question was loaded, and the prick knew it.

Rob swallowed hard, twisting his fingers together over the clipboard. "Ya know, stuff for an order. Address, email address, that kinda thing." He was stumbling over the words. I swear I could see sweat beading on his forehead.

"That so." It was more of a statement than a question, but Rob bobbed his head up and down anyways. "Cool. Let me see it."

"Well, you know, uhm, Mr. Genovese..." His voice was really shaking now. "That's uh... kind of confidential, and I could get in trouble for giving... well. You know."

"In trouble?" I picked up a pack of Magic cards from a display near the cash register, ripping the packaging open. Cool as _hell._ "Yeah, I guess. Getting in trouble must really fucking suck." I took out a card and held it out before me, showing it to him. His eyes fixated on it, clinging to it desperately, an excuse to look at anything besides me. His mouth was a thin line.

With a jerk of my hands, I tore the card in half; the sound of the thick paper ripping made him jump so suddenly that he almost toppled the stool he was sitting on. Flicking one of the pieces at him, I pocketed the other, leaving the rest of the cards on the counter. "Really fucking _suck._"

Without a word, Rob pushed the clipboard over to me and looked away. He suddenly seemed very interested in picking at one of those huge goddamn zits on his chin, his breathing uneven, erratic.

Pulling out my phone, I began to copy her information into my contacts. Her address was in some shitty part of town, which explained the thrift store look of her clothes. While I took that too, I was far more interested in her phone number and her email address. Once I had it all typed in, I tapped my fingers against the clipboard. "Better make sure she gets her shit, whatever it is." I laughed. "Hate to fucking inconvenience her."

I went to push myself away from the counter, but my hand brushed something malleable. Her scarf. I slipped my hands into it, and even through the leather of my gloves I could tell it was soft. More than a little amused that she'd left it, I made no attempt to hide the grin creeping back over my face. The weather was going to make her walk home _miserable_.

Lifting it up, I draped it over my shoulders. It smelled strongly like she had, sweet and warm. Potent. _Intoxicating._

"You uhm... well. She might be back for it." Rob's voice was really meek, his gaze fixed on the floor. Still, it broke me from my reverie.

I laughed, reaching over the counter to clap him on the shoulder. It was a friendly gesture, but my voice was thick with gleeful fucking contempt. "Good on you, Rob. It's about time you learned what goddamn _balls_ were. You've been missing yours for a fucking while now, right?"

The little shit didn't answer me, his shoulders hunched up, defeated.

"Oh? Yeah, I thought so." I tightened her scarf around my throat, making a point of tossing one of the tails over my shoulder in an exaggerated motion. It felt so soft against the underside of my chin. And that fucking _smell. "_Not today? Don't worry, Robby, I'm sure you'll balls'll drop in a few years. Really though, being a late bloomer must really fucking _blow_."

I turned from him then, gesturing towards Marco to let him know it was time to go. Like a good dog, he bent down and picked up the box of comics I was taking home. They were always set aside for me every month, paid for before I even arrived. The other clerks, more used to me than Rob was, often tried to talk me into buying shit I didn't need. They usually succeeded, as I was all too eager to ease my perpetual boredom with wanton spending.

Maybe it was that boredom that made me find _her_ so interesting. As Marco walked with me back to the car, I could honestly think of little else.

It sounds fucking stupid, really. I mean, it wasn't like I didn't have experience with girls. Money buys fucking everything, including all the cunt you could want. While I know my old man didn't really fucking care _for_ me, he made sure I didn't go without. Strip clubs, whores, whatever. Money could get a girl to take her clothes off; money could get her to fuck you. Money could get them to act like they lived for nothing more than to take your dick in their mouth and suck you off. Like they'd fucking die without it. Money could even get them to tell you they loved you, if that was your thing. Not that it was _mine._

If I'm to guess what it was at _that_ moment... _well. _It was something else to think of besides fucking Kick Ass, who I simultaneously hated and was more than a _little_ goddamn jealous of. God knows the way the news kept milking his cock was fucking _ridiculous._

Really, though, it was her confidence, the way she seemed so quick to overtake her own fear of me. It was so easy to disdain most people when they did nothing but lay themselves before you, fucking _so_ eager to be the shit on the bottom of your shoes. There was no fun in that. No game. You couldn't play when someone surrendered from the start.

Fear was a drug I couldn't get enough of, but like most drugs, you could get good and bad batches. Fear from someone like Rob was worth next to nothing, cheap and easy. Amusing, but never really worth _anything_.

Likewise, fear from absolute _strangers_ could sometimes prove better, but it was never a lasting high. I could imagine things about them to make it worth more, to make the hit better – they were someone important, perhaps, or someone that had wronged me. But I always ruined it for myself, because in the back of my mind, I always knew it was some bullshit story.

I didn't know Kylie Rosario then. All I knew about her was that she had a fucking _spine_ and that the fear in her eyes had been the most exhilarating fucking thing that I could remember happening to me in awhile. I mean, I could practically _taste_ it. I wanted it. I _wanted_ it so fucking _bad_.

Back in the car, I readied myself for a silent drive home. My bodyguards rarely ever had much to say to me. I know that most of them thought of me as little more than their boss's pussy son with a penchant for comics and figures and the occasional whore. Normally this line of thinking was something that got me riled the fuck up, but at that moment it was the last thing on my mind.

Marco and I sat with the box of comics between us. I kept my arm propped on it, completely disinterested, my other hand wrapped tight around my iphone in my pocket. Just knowing I had her stolen anonymity in it was a thrill. In the small heated cab of the car, the scent from her scarf was stronger still. It made me dizzy with lust, and I shifted uncomfortably. My erection made it impossible to get fucking relaxed.

"Not gonna read your comics?" It was Marco, and I could see the flash of the driver's eyes in the mirror, obviously sharing in Marco's confusion.

"Nah. Not feeling it." I nestled my face against her scarf, breathing in low and deep. The only thing I wanted to feel at that moment was her lips around my dick.

Marco shrugged, his gaze drawn to the window, watching the streets pass by in a blur.

She was out there, somewhere, walking home in the misting rain. Maybe she'd gone back to the shop to find the scarf she left. I wondered idly what old Rob would say to her, what fucking lie he'd make up. I knew he wouldn't tell her I'd taken it. Really though, I was disappointed I wouldn't be able to see her face, the way it'd fall when he told her it was gone.

Thing is, it started out so simple. The smell of her, her fingers against my hand. Peaked interest. A kid's game. And while I anticipated something _exciting_, I never fucking expected how it'd all spiral down to the glorious shitfest it is now.

Shitfest for _her, _anyway.


	2. A Gentleman

**_Genovese_**

I wanted to go home. I really did. There were things I wanted to do – namely, finding out more about Kylie. But when I told our driver – fuck if I can remember his name – he told me that wasn't going to happen. My father had intervened.

We picked up my old man on the way back from the comic shop for lunch, and then it was off to one of those classy strip clubs he liked so much. This wouldn't have been a problem normally; he took us to one of my favorite restaurants and the tits at that particular strip joint were top notch. But I really didn't want to go, and on top of _that_ Dad brought some cunt of a business partner with him. Someone he had to discuss something important with. I don't really fucking know – all I know is I didn't like the guy.

I didn't really pay attention to what they were talking about. Normally I'd try, if only because I felt like I ought to – for my old man, at least. He took that shit seriously, and I knew it pissed him off that I'd rather fuck my days away on comics and bullshit. I guess I took kind of a passing interest in it, though that probably had more to do with the fact that he expected me to and because I liked my nice cash safety net enough to worry about where it'd go after he was gone.

Anyway, all I gathered from the entire thing was that something was wrong and my father was in a terrible fucking mood because of it. Even his favorite girls at the club couldn't cheer him up. It kind of worked out though – he was so busy drinking his own anxieties away with that douche that neither of them noticed my total lack of interest in any of the girls _or_ what they were saying.

Not that I didn't consider it. The girls, anyways. It was tempting, especially considering the fucking _fury_ of my erection earlier. But lunch with them had killed it, and besides, there weren't any red heads around – and I was too weirded out about asking one of my old man's girls for a ginger.

It wasn't a total waste. I had my phone on me, after all, and access to the internet because of it. It was what I was so desperate to get home for, anyway: the internet, and the glories it would offer me. I wanted to find out _who_ Kylie Rosario _was_.

There was something thrilling about punching her name into the search bar to see what I'd find. I imagined all kinds of sordid, tantalizing things – shit that'd blow my mind. I'm not really sure what the _fuck_ I was thinking. I mean, she wasn't old enough for that kind of crap, really. It was a goddamn disappointment anyways. Her name brought up nothing. Not even a fucking MySpace page.

Frustrated, I tried the next best thing – her email. _That_ gave me something.

It wasn't anything sexual, but it was better than what I was expecting. The first search hit was a blog on one of those popular free blogging sites – _The Girl Anachronism_. The title gave me pause, if only because I didn't know what the fuck it was on about_._ But her email was there, quoted beneath the link, so it _had_ to have something to do with her. Holding my breath, I selected the link.

And proceeded to wait forever for the fucking thing to load.

I was a _little_ surprised by how long it was taking. I mean, it was a blog, right? Just a bunch of bullshit text. That's all they were. But after what felt like 5 minutes, everything came into view.

It wasn't a typical blog. By that I mean there actually wasn't much text. It was all _pictures_. Not photographs or anything, but drawings. Tons and tons of drawings.

The title of the blog was repeated up at the top, and beneath it was a tag line: _The artblog of Ky Rosario._ It explained two things – why there was so many fucking pictures and why I hadn't been able to find anything under her full name. Clever.

I would have been more disappointed over the lack of long-winded, indulgent entries about her life that would have given me a very clear window into her head if I wasn't pretty fucking impressed with her work. Kylie Rosario obviously knew what she was doing. She had a lot of comic based fan art up, but beyond that you could tell she had a handle on classical shit. Stylized shots of the Joker or Deadpool were followed up with practice sketches of obviously real people – done without the cartoonyish influence of typical comic style.

I admit I was biased. I liked her comic pieces better. Not that the more classic pieces were bad. She wasn't fucking _godlike_ or anything. I mean, she wasn't Michelangelo, but she was really fucking good when you considered her age and the training she probably _didn't_ have.

But her comic art was superior, in my eyes. She could have given a lot of the more popular artists a run for their goddamn money. Hell, I was so taken that I was willing to forgive her the first post's collection of Kick Ass sketches.

She'd obviously had a lot of practice. There seemed to be at _least_ a sketch a day, if not more – sometimes as much as five. When I tried out the calendar selection, I saw that she had an entry for every day going back around a year and a half. Her dedication was certainly there – I never would have had that kind of fucking patience.

I found myself drawn in, scrolling through her work, fascinated. While most of it was basic pencil work probably sketched in the middle of class, her finished pieces were fucking jaw-dropping. The detail, the color work, the lines. I never would have guessed that scrawny little ginger would _have talent like this._

For awhile I totally forgot why I was even there, that's how distracted I was. It took a post from a month or so back to jerk me from my haze – the first post so far without a picture. There wasn't much to it, with only one comment from that day, sudden and blunt: _"Break for today. I broke up with Logan, and I'm not really feeling it."_

I read that sentence over probably twenty fucking times. Who was Logan? How long had they dated? _Why did I fucking care_ _?_ For some reason though, I felt anger flaring in me, just thinking his fucking _name_.

My anger destroyed any remaining drive to continue browsing through her art, but it also reminded me why I was there in the first place. I fumbled with the way my phone was viewing the site, setting it to show me the real view and not the mobile view. This seemed to open up a lot more options, the most important being a link to a bio page.

Unfortunately, her bio was sparse. She had her birthday up, but not the year - not that it mattered, as I'd already discerned she was probably some odd two to four years younger than me. Her location was listed as being somewhere in Massachusetts, still, which indicated she probably wasn't the best at updating this info. Beyond that, she had mostly lists of shit up: favorite bands, movies, comics. Her taste was pretty fucking cool; I approved, if somewhat begrudgingly.

At first, I was unsure of what to do with all of this. So what if she liked Tarantino films and Chuck Palahniuk novels – what the fuck did that mean to me? But as I hit the bottom of her bio where she listed her contact information, a nasty sort of plot began to form in my head.

I already had her email, which was listed first, but beyond that she also had an AIM name down. While I could have made do with her email, the instant messenger seemed more _fun_. Besides, email was so 90s and _You've Got Fucking Mail. _I was _classier_ than _that_.

Satisfied, I set my phone on the table, propping my chin on my hands to watch my father, finally laughing. He was getting a lap dance from some blonde with fucking amazing tits.

"Ah, decided to join us, Chris?" He held up a crystal glass filled with a dark wine in my direction, his face red from all the alcohol. The blonde smirked at me, running her wet tongue along her upper lip.

"Sure, Dad," I answered vaguely, leaning my head into Kylie's scarf. That fucking _smell_. I'd refused to take it off, even in light of the warm club. "When are we going _home_?"

**_Rosario_**

It was late by the time I made it home. New York was the first city I'd ever lived in, and there was no way I was going to let a little rain or thunder scare me off from exploring. It'd been the first chance I had to since moving; I'd spent the better part of three days helping Aunt Cherise unpack all of our stuff in our tiny apartment.

The daytime made me fearless, even though Cherise warned me about the city, her worn eyes full of worry. Muggings, rape, _murder_... she was always so nervous. I know it was her nature, knew it was because she loved me, but it was a bit of a downer, regardless.

I guess I hadn't turned out entirely unscathed, either. I'd lost my scarf, after all, and that wasn't cool. I'd just made the thing too, and the yarn had been an expensive indulgence. The clerk at the comic shop said some scuffy bum had stolen it. I took comfort in knowing that he probably needed it more than me.

But where I was so brave in the waking hours, the night time made me uneasy. Cherise had told me that our living arrangements would be less than stellar when we moved, and she certainly hadn't been kidding. The street our apartment building was located on was the very definition of poverty. While not quite the projects, there were plenty of people struggling to put food on the table – including us. But I was used to that, at least.

Coming home had me tense with fear. I could feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins, making me almost dizzy. But the people that drifted around the street seemed so vacant, like empty-minded ghosts. They looked _through_ me, as if oblivious, and I managed to make it up to our apartment without any trouble.

Somehow, Cherise and I had managed to make our apartment homey and comfortable in spite of the peeling wallpaper, cracked walls and dripping leaks. Our mismatched furniture was covered in thick blankets we'd both made together, and I'd decorated the walls with various paintings I'd made for her over the years.

I could smell soup from the kitchen – potato with a small bit of beef. Cherise couldn't afford things like meat often, but I could recognize the smell of it instantly.

"That smells so good, Cherise," I called out to her, pulling off my shoes to leave them by the door next to her flats.

She appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, and I could see anxiety bleeding from her. "Christ above, Kylie, I was worried sick! You're home so late!"

"Sorry, the muggings kept me up," I shrugged my shoulders at her, giving her an impish grin.

"Don't joke about stuff like that!" She put both hands on her bony hips and shook her head. Suddenly, her face paled. "Where did your scarf go? Don't tell me you really - "

I moved across the apartment to her, throwing my arms about her slender shoulders to draw her into me. She folded into the embrace, and I could feel the tension melting from her form. "No, Cherry, it's just me. I left it in a comic shop, and apparently a bum made off with it. With how nasty the weather is, he probably needs it. I can make another!"

She sighed against my shoulder, her breath rustling my curls. "But it was such a pretty scarf. You worked so hard on it."

"Scarves are easy, Cherry." I pulled away from her, grinning. "_You_ can make me another even? In a day, I'm sure."

"It's just a matter of finding the time, but I might have to. It's so cold outside..."

"It'll warm up again before it sticks, don't worry about that," I promised her, keeping my tone light. "When's dinner?"

"It would have been ready already but work had me late," she answered, rubbing her temples with cracked fingers. Looking at them made _my_ hands hurt. Cherise worked in a kitchen for a diner and the water from dish washing always made her hands crack. "Give me an hour. It's still got to simmer, to make the meat tender."

"Sure," I leaned over, pecking her on the cheek. She was one of the few adults I knew _shorter_ than me. "I'm gonna go look up my class schedule again - see you in a bit, yeah?"

She shooed me away then, returning to the kitchen in all its warmth and delicious smells. I almost wanted to follow her, but I really _did_ need to go over my schedule. My new school seemed like it was going to be huge and intimidating, and I wanted to minimize the shock as much as possible.

By contrast, my room was nowhere near as welcoming. Not that it was _bad_, but it was so _cramped_. All I had in it was a bed, my desk, a space heater and a few milk crates of clothes – and even then I barely had any room to walk. I needed to get around to putting up more art, but I'd found my adventures in the city far more enticing than spending another day cooped up inside.

Pausing to pet my cat Tribbles who had conquered my bed with his fat majesty, I threw myself into my computer chair, my eyes moving immediately to a blinking window at the bottom of my screen.

A friend request on AIM.

Since leaving Massachusetts I'd gotten in the habit of just leaving AIM on so I could talk to friends back home with ease. We used it in lieu of texts; I still needed to pick up a prepaid phone, but it worked great in between decorating sessions with Cherise.

I frowned, staring at the window. _KingVariant. _Who?

I considered it for awhile. It could be any number of people, but I mostly feared it'd be my ex, Logan. Since blocking him awhile ago, he'd tried to friend me on various different names, hoping to be able to talk to me. But it _had_ been awhile since he last tried, and according to friends, he'd started trying to move on. God save his next girlfriend.

Sucking on the inside of my lip, I hit accept. AIM immediately told me this KingVariant had logged on, and I watched his name light up on my buddy list.

I waited a few seconds to see if he'd contact me, but losing patience, I decided to bite the bullet.

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium:<strong> Hey. Do I know you?

* * *

><p>Watching the screen, I saw the bottom indicate that whoever it was was typing.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>KingVariant:<strong> Not yet. But you will.

* * *

><p>Drumming my fingers against the desk, I considered this for a moment. I wasn't sure I liked how it sounded.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium: <strong>Cryptic. Maybe a little unsettling.

**KingVariant: **Your imagination's getting the better of you. I'm teasing. About the implied danger, anyways.

**Delight'sDelirium: **Not about the me getting to know you part?

**KingVariant: **You aren't that lucky.

* * *

><p>Snarky, whoever it was. In my mind I assigned him a gender. Not too many women would use the title "King", but it wasn't entirely impossible.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium:<strong> Ha-ha, very funny. But really. Who are you?

**KingVariant:** A fan.

* * *

><p>There was a pause that made me start to feel uneasy again. Was that all he was going to give me?<p>

* * *

><p><strong>KingVariant: <strong> Of your art.

* * *

><p>I mentally breathed a sigh of relief.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium: <strong>Really? I wasn't aware anyone paid attention. I'm not exactly stellar at advertising.

**KingVariant:** Too humble or can't be assed?

**Delight'sDelirium: **Prolly a mix of both, actually. :) Really though, I sound ungrateful. That's a kind thing to say. Would it sound foolish if I said I was somewhat excited at the compliment?

* * *

><p>It wasn't a lie, really. It did make me happy. People didn't stumble upon my blog too often, because it was true. I didn't advertise or seek to get my name out. It was mostly a personal endeavor.<p>

* * *

><p><strong> KingVariant: <strong>Flattery enough to blind you to the perils of the internet then? Good to know.

**Delight'sDelirium: **Well, you know what they say. ;)

**KingVariant: **Glad to know I"m getting places.

* * *

><p>I didn't respond for awhile. To be honest, I didn't know what to say. I noticed my friend Melissa was trying to talk to me, but I couldn't bring myself to open her window. I kept staring at the empty box in my conversation with the mysterious Variant.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium:<strong> Still... you know. Maybe I'm just paranoid. It seems a bit much. I mean, you could have commented on my blog itself. The AIM thing seems a bit... extravagant? Not that I mean to sound rude or anything; I'm sure you're a cool person. I guess it's just unexpected.

**KingVariant: **Getting defensive again?

**Delight'sDelirium: **I prefer "cautious" actually! You said yourself the internet was perilous.

**KingVariant: **Ha. Well, I considered it, but I had something of a deal to propose, and it was something I felt better explained here than via comments. Unless you wanted the hits. I could indulge that too, you know. Your blog is somewhat empty of user feed-back.

* * *

><p>I felt my nose crinkle as I frowned at the computer screen. I couldn't tell if he was being a jack-ass or just being witty. The internet always made that so hard.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium: <strong>Oh?

* * *

><p>It was all I could think to say.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>KingVariant:<strong> A business deal of sorts. Do you do omission work?

* * *

><p>Surprised at his answer, I leaned back in my chair, my feet pressed hard against the wall under the desk. I never had before. No one ever asked me to - not many people even knew I drew.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium: <strong>I've never done one actually.

**KingVariant: **So is that a no?

**Delight'sDelirium: **No, no... I didn't mean that. It was more like I was taken aback by the request and wasn't sure what to say, so. I just kinda said whatever came to mind. It sounds stupid and evasive in retrospect.

**KingVariant: **So...

**Delight'sDelirium:** I do kind of need some money. I'm perpetually broke. :(

**KingVariant: **Then take my job. I'd pay very well for it.

**Delight'sDelirium: **I guess that depends on what you need done and how much you'd be willing to pay.

**KingVariant:** Well, what drew me to you specifically was your talent with comic art. I think that's how I found your site initially, actually. It's hard to remember how. You know how the internet works. Start somewhere, end up somewhere else entirely different.

**Delight'sDelirium: **Right. The never-ending maze of crap.

**KingVariant: **Yeah. Anyway, I've been sitting on this idea for awhile and I decided to man up and ask you.

**Delight'sDelirium: **Now it's my turn to say "So." And act all mysterious.

**KingVariant: **Ha. Sassy. I like it.

* * *

><p>Despite myself, I blushed.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>KingVariant: <strong>But I want you to design an OC for me. Comic style.

**Delight'sDelirium: **That could be interesting. Good guy or bad guy?

**KingVariant:** Villain.

**Delight'sDelirium: **You prefer villains?

**KingVariant: **Don't you? Your gallery is full of them.

* * *

><p>He had a point, I had to admit. I shifted in my seat, my toes curling in my socks.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium: <strong>Yeah, okay. You're right.

**KingVariant: **I have to ask though. For someone who prefers villains... why Kick Ass?

* * *

><p>I laughed out loud at the mention. It <em>was<em> kind of goofy. Compared to the heroes and the villains that filled my gallery, Kick Ass did look pretty ridiculous. His costume was so silly; he seemed so out of place.

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium: <strong>LOL! That's a special case. I mean, he's a real person! Villains are cool in theory. Dramatic, frightening, sadistic...

**KingVariant: **But?

**Delight'sDelirium: **But it's a fantasy thing. I mean, it's cool to think about. But I think Kick Ass is doing a really good thing. Bad guys are never as neat IRL as they are in comics.

* * *

><p>He paused for the first time in awhile, which gave <em>me<em> pause. He'd been replying so fast; had I offended him?

* * *

><p><strong>KingVariant: <strong>You just haven't met the right one then. ;)

* * *

><p>I was clearly just over-reacting. He was obviously too chill to be offended.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium: <strong>Call me when you find the "right one", then!

**KingVariant: **For you, certainly. But will you take the job? $200.

* * *

><p>For a moment I could only stare, slack-jawed, at the screen. Two hundred dollars? Really? That was so much money. Cherry would be amazed. I had to keep reading the phrase over, burning it into my mind. I half expected him to take it back, to tell me it was too much, that he was making a mistake.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium: <strong>$200! That's... a lot of money. A lot. Generous.

**KingVariant: **Generous? I thought I was low-balling you. You're worth it.

* * *

><p>There was a fluttery feeling in the pit of my stomach. My face hurt, and it took me a moment to realize it was because I was smiling so wide. Two hundred dollars. He thought I was <em>worth<em> it.

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium: <strong>Well... if you think so.

* * *

><p>It didn't put to words how excited I was, how happy he'd made me. But I didn't know him then. I didn't feel comfortable gushing. It wasn't that I didn't <em>want<em> to, but more that I was worried I'd scare him away.

* * *

><p><strong>KingVariant: <strong>Don't doubt. I'm positive. I'll send you an email with the details of my request... I need to get the specifications and I find talking to you too distracting to focus on it properly.

* * *

><p>I pressed my tongue against the inside of my teeth and smiled again. Was he <em>flirting<em> with me?

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium: <strong>Sure, sure, that'll be fine. Thanks. Um. What should I call you? I've been calling you "Variant" in my head, and as dramatic as that sounds...

**KingVariant: **Assigned me a name already, have you? My name is Chris, though. Chris D'Amico.

* * *

><p>His name jogged my memory like some kind of shock. Immediately I remembered the comic book shop, and the mob boss's kid. I hadn't actually thought of him since leaving. He'd seemed arrogant and full of himself, every bit the way one would expect the son of a mob boss to act. I suppose it was easy to fall into that trap, when you could step on everyone without repercussions. Ironic, then, that they had the same name.<p>

Not that this Chris seemed lacking in arrogance. Well, maybe arrogance wasn't the right word. He seemed... _confident_. In him, it seemed like a good thing though. I liked it about him; it gave him that sharp tongue, lent him a cool kind of air. But what did I know? I was admittedly fairly drunk off his compliments.

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium: <strong>LOL. That's weird. You're the second Chris I've met today.

**KingVariant: **Sadly it's a popular name. I doubt he's as charming as me.

**Delight'sDelirium: **Oh, you're miles ahead. You're posh. A gentleman and a scholar.

**KingVariant: **But of course, Mr. Rosario.

* * *

><p>Mister? Did he think I was a "mister"? Then again – yes, of course. No girls on the internet.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium: <strong>I'm a miss, actually!

**KingVariant: **Pardon. Ky is one of those genderless names.

**Delight'sDelirium: **Ah, true. It's short for Kylie. But my blog's title!

**KingVariant: **Is the name of a song. It could be anything. This is the internet, -Miss- Ky.

**Delight'sDelirium: **Yeah, I know, I know... Do you like them?

**KingVariant: **The band? Admittedly I've never heard of them. I Googled it a few minutes before talking to you.

* * *

><p>He was honest. I liked that.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium: <strong>I half expected you to tell me you knew everything about them.

**KingVariant: **I considered it. You know, make myself look like I was up on the sort of stuff you are. But I decided against it.

**Delight'sDelirium: **I like you better this way. :)

**KingVariant: **I'm honored, sweetheart. :P

* * *

><p>I bit my lip in an attempt to tone down that smile that was splitting my face so uncomfortably. He <em>was<em> flirting with me.

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium: <strong>Anyway, I guess I don't make a huge point of my gender. I don't actually use my blog much for actual... blogging.

**KingVariant: **I noticed. But it's not a big deal. I mean, it's hardly a fault. It's pretty impressive though, a girl as talented as you. And one who likes comics – pretty fucking nice.

* * *

><p>I was thankful we were talking over a computer. My head felt all light, and my face burned hot – I could feel the burning all the way up in the tips of my ears. And as a ginger, my blushes were <em>fierce<em>.

It sounds stupid, I know. I felt stupid and childish even then, being as taken in as I was by it. But this was something I was passionate about – my art! And it had been so long since I had spoken to anyone besides Cherise about it.

And in my defense, I was fresh off a break up and more than a little susceptible.

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium: <strong>Is your OC called the Silver-Tongued Devil? :(

**KingVariant: **Clever, too. But you have no idea, Ky.

* * *

><p>From the living room, I heard Cherry calling my name. Dinner time. I cursed inwardly, but I <em>was<em> hungry. That soup smelled delicious and reminded me that my breakfast of toast and jam had been inadequate for the entire day.

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium: <strong>I can only imagine. Anyway, I have school in the morning, so I'm hopping off. Shoot me that email, I'll get back to you quick.

**KingVariant: **Sure thing. Sleep tight, Kylie. Look forward to talking to you later.

* * *

><p>I made a point of signing off of AIM after that, completely ignoring whatever it was Melissa (and by that point Neil) were trying to say. I knew if I came back from dinner and saw him on I'd be tempted to talk to him again. He told me he <em>would<em>, after all. That comment had made me more giddy than I wanted to admit.

As I made my way to the kitchen, I couldn't help but feel like I was floating.

* * *

><p><strong>AN<strong>: Yeah, I used D'Amico as Chris's "pretend" last name as a nod to the film because I really like the film a lot too. :) I just like his devious, dangerous self from the comics a lot more. Didn't really know how to work instant messengers into a story, either, and fanfic dot net's formating is pretty limited much to my chagrin. This was the best I could figure out working it. It looked so much better in openoffice.


	3. Travel in Groups

**AN: **There's a small two paragraph bit of wankery in this chapter. You've been warned. :v

* * *

><p><em><strong>Genovese<strong>_

I sent her the specifications for my OC the next morning at fucking 6 am because it took me all goddamn night to come up with something. I was never as creative as I'd have liked to be, and the whole thing was a lie anyways. Just a reason to get to talk to her – to get her to talk to _me_. I was so fucking pleased it'd worked. I was glad she didn't ask why I wanted it done, because I hadn't thought _that_ far ahead.

It should have been more difficult. I mean, I was expecting it to be. But she was just so _naïve_ and _trusting_, like there was no _possible_ way I was some kind of creeper. Whether she was silly or stupid, it more than worked out for me.

I'd worried about telling her my name was Chris, but if this progressed the way I _wanted_ it to, I really didn't like the idea of her calling me something that _wasn't_ my name. For once I thanked my father for giving me one of the world's most boring fucking names. I would have been royally screwed if my name was something epic, like I'd always wanted it to be.

She didn't make the connection though. Well – she remembered me from the comic joint, but didn't realize who I _was_ and I was thankful for that. I'd been sort of ready for that contingency, but it would have put a damper on my plans, especially since she seemed wary of Chris _Genovese_. Chris _D'Amico_ was a fucking _gentleman_, though. A real _ladykiller_.

Yawning, I pushed my Macbook off my lap and padded, naked, to the windows that lined one of the walls of my room. We were high enough up that I wasn't at any real risk of being seen – not that I'd have given a fuck even if we were on the first floor. What the hell would anyone do, really? I was a goddamn _Genovese_.

Rain still pelted the windows, with even more ferocity than the night before. Below I could see the lights of cars, flimsy and flickering in the darkness, bleeding their way through the streets. Everything from up here always seemed so small and insignificant. I figured that was why my dad favored the penthouse – he liked looking _down_ on people.

Leaning my head against the glass, I couldn't really blame him for that. It was exhilarating, being able to do whatever the _fuck_ I wanted, whenever the fuck I wanted to. Power was intoxicating. I envied the way the others cringed when he spoke, when he narrowed his eyes in their direction. The way he was able to command _fear_ was something I had always envied.

"_You'll grow into it." _He'd said to me once. He'd sounded as hopeful as I felt.

I'd been unsure, but I knew, even then, that I had his viciousness. Like father, like son. We weren't so different, but I worried I lacked his control. Scary, thinking _he_ was more in control than I was.

There was a soft noise behind me, a mechanical chime. AIM. Leering, I made my way back to my bed, stretching out on my stomach, my fingers at the keys. Sure enough. Fucking _sure_ enough.

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium: <strong>I got your email. :) I'll get to work on it as soon as I get home from school, promise!

* * *

><p>She was too much. So fucking <em>precious<em>.

* * *

><p><strong>KingVariant: <strong>Ha. Don't push yourself, babe. Didn't you say you have school?

**Delight'sDelirium: **Yeah, it's why I'm up. Got to get ready. I'm nervous as hell.

**KingVariant: **Why nervous? It's just school.

* * *

><p>I knew very well why she was nervous. I'm so fucking glad I never had to deal with school. Dad had always gotten me private tutors. Protection detail was too difficult to manage in a public school, and private school was for <em>pussies<em>.

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium:<strong> It's my first day... :( I'm a little intimidated. New stuff is always hard to get used to.

**KingVariant: **Ah, did you change schools recently then?

**Delight'sDelirium: **Yeah. Just moved from Massachusetts to the scary Big Apple.

**KingVariant: **That's pretty fucking cool. I live in Albany and go into NYC sometimes. It's an awesome place.

**Delight'sDelirium: **I'm not used to cities. Like, it was okay during the day, but I came home late last night and it just... I don't know.

**KingVariant: **Made you uncomfortable?

**Delight'sDelirium: **That's putting it lightly. I mean, nothing happened... it's just my aunt's always putting these terrible "what ifs" in my head, and after awhile it starts to get to me. I love her but she's a bit of a neurotic.

**KingVariant: **Hah. Well, I'm sure you'll be fine, sweetheart. You aren't allowed to get mugged, or murdered. Or whatever. Not before I get to have my fun with you first.

* * *

><p>There was something so fucking <em>delicious<em> about her inability to see the shit-eating grin I had plastered on my face. It was anything _but_ gentlemanly.

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium: <strong>Oh ho! Your fun? Don't worry, I'll get your OC done before I end up a statistic. :) Brb a second, I need to go try and brush my hair.

**KingVariant: **Try?

* * *

><p>But she'd set herself to away. With my feet, I pulled her scarf up off my pillow and wrapped it around my bare shoulders, letting her smell surround me. The whole thing was such a fucking <em>terrible<em> joke and I _loved_ it.

There was something really enticing about knowing so much about someone when they knew so little about you. I felt it gave me an advantage over her, and I liked that. Much like looking down from my lofty tower, it made me feel superior and in control. Except in this case, it wasn't just a _feeling._ I was a goddamn puppet master, pulling her strings. And she had _no fucking clue_.

My Macbook made that sound again, and I let my eyes focus back on the screen.

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium: <strong>Sorry about that. I said 'try' because taming my hair is almost impossible. Half the time its even futile to brush it. It pretty much does what it wants.

**KingVariant: **What color?

**Delight'sDelirium: **Red. :( A curly red mess.

**KingVariant: **Why the sad face? Red heads are sexy. So are curls, actually.

* * *

><p>There was a pause. <em>"Delight'sDelirium has entered text." "Delight'sDelirium is typing." <em>_"Delight'sDelirium has entered text." _I chuckled to myself, rubbing her scarf against my cheek. I imagined her staring in bewilderment at her computer screen, heat flush in her cheeks, her fingers locked against the keys. Forgetting to breathe.

There was the possibility that she'd be offended, of course. Some girls couldn't take compliments without being weirded out, but she didn't strike me as that sort. First of all, she was far too fucking _nice _to chew me out even if she was angry, and secondly, I got the impression that I'd had her eating out of my hand the night before – and her contacting _me_ at six in the _goddamn morning_ made me pretty confident of that assumption.

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium: <strong>Haha... weeeeell. I guess. Maybe.

* * *

><p>I imagined her saying that aloud, tripping over her words, her eyelashes fluttering nervously. It made me fucking <em>hard<em>.

* * *

><p><strong>KingVariant: <strong>Do you have freckles?

* * *

><p>I could play this game <em>all day<em>. I hadn't found anything anywhere near as entertaining in fucking _forever._

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium: <strong>Unfortunately. :(

**KingVariant: **I fucking love freckles. I bet you're adorable, Ky. I'm gonna steal you. K?

* * *

><p>I'd caught her again, and I savored the awkward pause. The internet made things so much <em>easier<em>, and I could move as quickly or as slowly as I wanted without any real repercussions. I was fucking high off of my anonymity. It made me feel invincible.

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium: <strong>Well, you're certainly welcome to try... at least then I wouldn't have to go to school!

**KingVariant: **That sounds more like a rescue mission. I don't do rescue missions.

**Delight'sDelirium: **Oh, I beg your pardon, sir. I forgot you were a villain. ;) I take back my statement then!

**KingVariant: **Don't be coy, Ky. You know you love it. Heroes are boring.

**Delight'sDelirium: **Maybe, Chris. Just maybe. Shit! I really need to bail or I'm gonna be late. School's gonna be mega awkward without having to walk into class after it's started. I'm so terrified of getting lost.

**KingVariant: **You'll be fine, I'm sure.

**Delight'sDelirium: **I hope so. I'll work on your drawing at lunch!

* * *

><p>Before I could respond, a window popped up telling me she'd logged off. I shut my Macbook then and pushed it under the bed to make sure I wouldn't step on it after the nap I was planning to take. My old man wanted to take me to lunch again, probably to rant drunkenly about whatever had him all fucked up yesterday.<p>

I settled myself in bed properly, my hand groping for the switch behind the headboard. I had two switches – one by the door, and one behind my bed. The one behind my bed was for the nights I fell asleep reading comics, when I was too fucking lazy to get up for the one by the door. That was almost _every_ night.

The room was goddamn dark because of the storm outside – the only light came from my iMac across the room. I never turned the thing off – the hum of it was relaxing. It was more like a glorified night light than a computer, as I used my Macbook way more.

My bed was like a fucking cloud. It melded to my body, warm and soft, the sheets like silk. I pulled the heavy blankets up to my chin, stifling a yawn. I'd been nursing that on and off again arousal all night, and with Kylie's scarf still secured around my throat, I could feel it burning strong through my sudden exhaustion. I'd put it off for so long, resisting the urge, savoring it – and while I'd impressed myself with my own willpower, I was fucking done fighting it.

I slipped my left hand beneath the sheets, seeking out my demanding dick, my right hand pressing her scarf against my mouth and nose. The smell of her was heady, fucking _overwhelming_, and I felt myself throb between my fingers. This was gonna be _so _fucking _good_. Poor little Kylie Rosario had _no idea_.

Sometimes, I decided, as the muscles in my thigh started to twitch – it was _worth_ letting it _simmer_.

_**Rosario**_

School didn't turn out to be the nightmare I'd expected, and I couldn't have been happier for it. I'd been so tense walking in; the school itself was infinitely larger than my last one, and in the foul weather, the building seemed to yawn up before me like some kind of ominous maw of madness. But I found my classes without issue, and even managed to start some conversations with some of the kids in them.

As the day passed, I felt silly for worrying in the first place. While not exactly a social butterfly, I'd never had any real difficulty talking to people I didn't know. I always just pretended that we'd known each other for ages and ran with it. It usually worked out; most people were all too eager to ramble about themselves if you gave them a chance, and I've always been a very good listener.

The school work didn't seem too difficult and a few of my teachers pulled me aside after each class to discuss catching me up so that I'd be on the same page as the other students. They all seemed so warm and understanding, sympathetic to my moving in the middle of the school year. It probably helped that my transcript had been good. Teachers always appreciated knowing you weren't going to blow off their classes. I generally enjoyed learning, and because of it, school had never really been that hard. I'd even skipped a year in middle school.

I'd been wary about my clothes, but the thrift-store look seemed to be in full swing. No one even batted an eye at my janky Chuck Taylors or my worn jeans. I even had someone compliment my shirt for looking 'vintage', which I thought was pretty cute, considering it was my old elementary school's spirit day shirt.

The only thing I continued to dread as the day wore on was lunch, and even that went smoothly. I was nervous about having no one to sit with, but I was saved from that dilemma at the soda machine while pulling out my orange soda from the dispenser.

"Hey, Red! Got somewhere to sit?"

Turning around, I found myself face to face with a slightly pudgy kid I recognized from my math class.

"Actually, no, I don't," I grinned at him sheepishly, shrugging my shoulders. "And that's kind of a problem, I guess!"

He gestured towards my beat up messenger bag, particularly at my _Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters_ patch, wearing a grin to match mine. "I saw that on your bag when you were leaving pre-cal, and I was all 'Holy shit, I gotta talk to that girl.' I tried catching up to you, but you have the fucking _quickness_." He laughed. "But that gets you a goddamn ticket to the cool club, Red. You gotta come hang with us." He held out his right arm, showing a matching patch on the sleeve of his jacket.

I liked him immediately. He was boisterous, his smile infectious. He even had freckles to match mine. "Guess us mutants gotta stick together, huh?" I linked my arm through his, watching his smile get wider.

"Definitely. Fuck the normals, right?" He made to fist bump me with his free hand. "Oh, and don't mind Todd. Guy's a fucking tool. I mean, he's pretty boss, but he can be an ass... just nail him in the balls if he starts mackin' on you or something."

His name was Marty, and he introduced me to his friends at the table. There were two of them besides him: Todd, the one he'd mentioned, was tall and lanky, with dark hair that fell to his shoulders. His eyes were wide as dinner plates when Marty and I approached, his jaw slack. "The fuck, Marty. When the hell did you start picking up chicks for lunch dates?" When we sat down, he made a point of sliding up beside me, essentially sandwiching me between himself and Marty.

Out of the three of them, he had the roughest edges, but I found I didn't mind. He and Marty played off each other really well, and together they had me laughing more than I had in a long time.

Then there was Dave, with his tousled blonde hair and his shy smile. He seemed nice, if distracted, his eyes darting all over the cafeteria. "It's fucking Katie Deauxma," Marty had whispered to me while Dave was asking Todd something about Marvel Zombies. "He's fucking had the hots for her for years. To the point of telling her he's _gay_ just to get an up close and personal view of her tits, if you catch my drift." I'm not sure what other drift I could have caught, but I felt bad for Dave anyways – even if I knew that plan was destined for failure.

Lunch passed all too quickly over discussion of upcoming comic books, movie releases, and the fact that Dave would take it up the ass from minotaurs if it meant he could get with Katie – though he seemed disinclined to agree. Marty even gave me his sandwich when he found out I didn't have anything but my orange soda. When I protested, Todd assured me he rarely ate them. ("You think he got his fat ass off sandwiches? It's cause he eats fucking four bags of Cheetos. Don't worry, he always tosses those anyway.")

They made me promise I'd sit with them tomorrow, and I was all too happy to oblige. We compared schedules, but math was the only class I had with any of them, and that was just Marty. I wasn't too worked up over it – I'd made do so far, and Marty was my favorite, anyway.

The rest of the day went by without a hitch, the remnants of my anxiety gone. In my last period, I pulled my sketchbook from my bag and started doodling, only half paying attention to the teacher. English was one of my strong suits, and he was going over a book I'd read back home in Massachusetts earlier that year.

My mind drifted to Chris, and I couldn't help but smile as I sketched a circle on the page, the beginning of a head. Two hundred dollars. I was _worth_ it. I pressed my feet together beneath my desk, my toes curling at the thought.

His admiration of my art had given me confidence, and in that vein, I'd found it easier to be myself in front of all the people I'd met that day. Like a silly little girl, I looked forward to getting home and telling him so. Whether he'd appreciate it or not was anyone's guess, but the thought of admitting it to him brought a bit of heat to my cheeks.

As I began to doodle the body of his so-far-faceless villain, I wondered idly what he looked like. Who he _was_. Albany wasn't that far away. I'd look up the distance between it and New York City during my digital art class: two and a half hours by car. That wasn't so far... not that I could drive.

But maybe _he_ could.

I bent down over my sketchbook so my hair fell across my cheeks, hiding my growing embarrassment from the rest of my classmates. I felt childish, thinking those things, especially about someone I barely knew. It would have made more sense for me to be thinking of Marty, or Todd – or even Dave, with his awkward smiles and puppy dog crush on Deauxma. I'd actually met them, at least... knew what they liked. They were _real_ people.

It occurred to me as I began to put down the outline of a mask that I didn't know anything about Chris beyond the fact that he had a clever tongue. Well, I knew he liked comics, he probably had a lot of money if he was willing to spend two hundred dollars on my art (not to mention his probable collecting of variant comics) _and_ that he was good at making my brain melt. I made a mental note to ask him more about himself later. Raising my eyes to the clock, I groaned inwardly at the time.

Forty more minutes until school was out.

It felt like forty more _decades_.

_**Genovese**_

I woke up to a sharp pounding at my door. Outside, the storm still raged, making it difficult to tell what time it was, and I was still so fucking tired. Pulling my pillow over my head, I groaned out something unintelligible, knowing full well it wouldn't be anyone but my old man.

I heard the door crack, the light from the hallway cutting into the dark room. "Chris. For God's sake, get the fuck up, it's four in the fucking afternoon." His voice was tense with agitation. I swear I could hear his teeth grinding against each other from my fucking bed.

Turning to face him, I kept my pillow pressed to the side of my head. "Really? No lunch then, huh." It was passive as hell, but I didn't give a damn. I'd honestly been looking forward to lunch with him. It was always kind of cool when it was just the two of us - barring bodyguards of course. But then, we didn't fucking pay them to chat, and they knew to keep their mouths shut.

My old man sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Look Chris, I'm fucking sorry, okay?" He ran a hand through his hair, and for a moment he looked so goddamn old. The shadows played off the lines in his face, adding _at least_ twenty fucking years. "I got ya some Chinese though, since ya like those fucking powdered donut things so much. Put some goddamn clothes on and we'll eat at the bar in the den."

He was obviously still fucked up over something. I'd assumed that anger was meant for me initially, the way he'd bit off his words, like he was fucking _spitting_ them. My old man never liked it when I slept in too late. He was one of those old guys who fucking woke up at six in the goddamn morning after four hours of sleep – and he thought I should do the same.

It was a relief to know I wasn't the reason for his fury, though. I didn't give a fucking shit about _anyone's_ opinion, but god, I fucking wanted to punch _glass_ when he pulled that disappointed crap with me. It was one of those few things that really tore me up, like someone was twisting my fucking insides into knots.

I rolled out of bed when he was gone, trying to rub the sleep from my eyes. Kylie's scarf was still tangled around my neck, dangling down against my thigh, soft as hell against my skin. Smirking, I made a mental note to ask Rosa to change my sheets. I'd made quite the mess of them over thoughts of Miss Rosario.

I pulled on a pair of jeans I found on the floor and a dirty shirt off a chair because I was too goddamn lazy to make my way to the closet. Not like I had impressions to make; my dad didn't give a damn and I couldn't be assed.

Briefly I considered taking my Macbook with me; I had girls to chat up. But with my old man in the mood he was, I got the impression he wouldn't appreciate it, so I made do with my phone. I logged onto the crappy mobile version of AIM, and she wasn't on yet – but something told me she would be soon. Secure in that knowledge, I set her scarf on my bed I made my way to the den.

To my surprise, my dad was the only one there, sitting at the bar with a cigar in one hand and a beer in the other. It seemed like any time we were home he was surrounded by cronies, their lips so eager to attach themselves to his ass. Really, there were days we had to fucking _leave_ just to have a goddamn private conversation.

"Well, I wasn't expecting this," I said, casting my eyes around the room in obvious disbelief. Maybe I _was_ in trouble. He usually tried not to chew me out in front of his guys.

Dad pulled his eyes from the TV – it looked like some old black and white flick – and shrugged, pushing at a white take-out box beside him with his elbow. "Didn't fucking feel like listening to their chatter. All they got for me is bad fucking news and I swear I'm gonna put a bullet through the head of the next one with any more of that shit."

I joined him at the bar, pulling open the box. Kung pao and those fucking _donuts_. He wasn't half bad sometimes. Breaking apart the pair of chopsticks, I glanced at him out of the corner of my eyes. "You didn't get anything. Why?"

He downed the rest of the beer in one long gulp before crushing the can. "I can't fucking stomach anything right now – least of all goddamn chink food. That shit eats me up on a good day. Swear I have a fucking ulcer."

While that was true, my old man _never_ turned down fucking Chinese. I put the chopsticks down, swinging in my stool to really _look_ at him. "The fuck is going on? You've been all kinds of jacked up these past few days. Some kind of bad deal or what?"

He tapped his cigar against the ashtray he always kept at the bar. Red and misshapen, it was something I'd made for him for Father's Day when I was five or six, using that shitty kid's clay you bake in an oven. I'd used one of his fancy steak knives to carve the word's "World's Best Dad" in the middle – except I'd misspelled "world". He hadn't even been mad I'd fucked the knife up.

It'd started this trend of other people in the family getting him ash trays, and they were scattered all over the pent house. There were fancy ones, simple ones, ones with gems on them, ones painted by famous artists. But he always kept this one at the bar, and the last time someone besides him had tried to use it, he'd broken their hand without a goddamn word.

The old man frowned at the ash, pushing it out of the middle of the tray with his pinky so it didn't cover the words. Suddenly I felt fucking awful for not listening to him the past couple of days.

"I wish it was a bad deal. Fuck." He took a long drag of his cigar, exhaling slowly. "More like a fucking nightmare I can't wake the fuck up from."

Picking up the remote, he switched the station to the news. There was fucking Kick Ass in his shitty costume, waving frantically at the camera. The reporter beside him was talking about how he'd saved a kid from getting hit by a car, or some shit. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my dad jabbing his finger towards the screen, ash from his cigar spilling across the counter.

"That guy. _That_ _fucking guy_."

I raised my eyebrows, staring at the screen. "Dad, he's a fucking prick, I agree – but you can't eat Chinese food cause of _Kick Ass ?_"

He slammed his fist down on the counter and I jumped, one of my chopsticks rolling off the bar and onto the floor.

"No, it isn't just him. It's him and the _rest_ of those fucking _costumed_ fucks running around, getting their sticky goddamn fingers in all my shit!" He was snarling, his eyes narrowed to slits. I'd seen him like this before, but only a few times. Usually it ended with us having to call Vinny to clean up the mess my old man inevitably left behind himself in these outbursts.

"Other ones? _What_ other ones?"

He stood up then and made his way to the far side of the bar to retrieve a folder and a bottle of one of his _oldest_ wines. Setting the folder in front of me, he returned to his seat, uncorking the wine.

"Look at that, and fucking tell me what you think." He took a long drink of the wine, not even bothering with a fucking glass. He didn't have to pretend to be refined around _me_.

My food all but forgotten, I opened the folder. It was full of photographs, the first being of some old big guy in a ski mask and a trench coat and some little girl dressed for fucking Halloween. I was about to ask my dad what the fuck he was on about when I saw the rest beneath them. People in the family, my dad's guys, torn to fucking _pieces_.

"...went over it a few days ago, but you were too busy reading your comics to..."

My ears were ringing. I couldn't really hear what he was saying. The pictures – it was a fucking slaughter house. I mean, I'd seen what my dad did, what his friends did, what _we_ did, but this was different. It wasn't _us._ I knew a lot of these people, some of them since I was a fucking kid. A few of them had even given me fucking birthday gifts. And while I hadn't ever really given a shit about them, I knew my dad counted some of them as close friends.

I looked up at my dad, my hands white from gripping the photos. "This fucking guy and this shitty little cunt of a kid did _all this_?" My voice was a whisper.

My dad covered his mouth with his hand for a moment, letting his cigar burn. The silence was uncomfortable, and his body was fucking rigid with tension.

"Yeah," he said, finally. "Just those two assfucks." His eyes found the screen again, his lips drawn in a ferocious sneer. "And _that_ kid, whoever the fuck _he is. _He isn't helping."

There was a commercial on the TV about breakfast cereal, but I knew what he meant. I was beginning to doubt my old man could see anything but red.

"So these two fucks have been running around taking out our guys and you think _Kick Ass_ has something to do with it? The guy's a clown."

He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling through pursed lips. "It's too fucking convenient that they'd all come up around the same goddamn time. They have to be related. Then again, that'd make too much fucking sense. And running around like a fucking super hero does not make sense, so what the fuck do I know?"

His phone rang out from his back pocket – the theme song from The Sopranos. It meant it was Gigante. He sighed. "I gotta take this, Chris. Gimme a moment." He slid off his chair and gave me a look. "And eat your goddamn food, that shit is terrible when it gets cold."

Ruffling my hair awkwardly, he walked out onto the balcony, sliding the glass door behind him. I fished my chopstick off the floor, pushing my chicken around. I really wasn't fucking hungry now.

Then it was _my_ phone buzzing in my back pocket, and I dropped the fucking chopstick _again_, cursing. I'd forgotten about it. Fishing it out, I checked it. Yeah. _Kylie._

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium: <strong>Did you see Kick Ass on the news again? :)

* * *

><p>I felt my anger flare at her, but I smothered it. She <em>had<em> given me a fucking amazing orgasm earlier, after all – and I was a _gentleman_.

* * *

><p><strong>KingVariant: <strong>Are you kidding me? Hold me back, he fucking saved some old lady's -cat-.

**Delight'sDelirium: **As an owner of a cat, I'm offended! And it was a kid, goofball!

**KingVariant: **Whatever. How was school, or is Kick Ass fan-girling what you use to drown out a terrible day?

**Delight'sDelirium: **Ha. Jealous? :)

* * *

><p>I fucking <em>was<em>. I was overwhelmed with reasons to cave in Kick Ass's skull at that moment, and jealousy was _number fucking one_.

* * *

><p><strong>KingVariant: <strong>Lol.

**Delight'sDelirium: **Anyways, it was actually really good. Smooth sailing the entire way! And I feel like I have you to thank for that.

* * *

><p>What the <em>fuck<em> was she on about?

* * *

><p><strong>KingVariant: <strong>Oh? How so?

**Delight'sDelirium: **It probably sounds stupid, but I don't really talk about my art with anyone. Besides my aunt and like, my art teachers, no one really knows I even draw. Which is fine, because I'm not really into showing that crap off. I guess I always felt a bit awkward about it. But you made me feel really good about myself last night, and I don't know... I guess it kind of carried over into today. It made it easier, if that makes any sense.

* * *

><p>I stared at my phone for awhile, re-reading what she'd said over a few times. Clearly I was more fucking smooth than I'd suspected.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium: <strong>Um... I didn't offend you, did I? I was worried about gushing, but...

**KingVariant: **Ha, nah, you're fine Ky... I just didn't know what to say. I'm flattered, really. Hard to convey with text, yeah?

**Delight'sDelirium: **Now I feel kinda silly. :(

**KingVariant: **Don't. You're fucking adorable.

**Delight'sDelirium: **Oh, don't tease. I'm blushing.

* * *

><p>God, I wanted to see her blush. I imagined it, the way it'd glow behind her freckles on that white skin of hers. Fucking <em>hot<em>.

But the TV succeeded in distracting me from my fleeting arousal. The commercials were over, and the reporter was back, interviewing fucking _random_ people about Kick Ass, and Jesus Christ, no one had anything remotely negative to say. God, you'd think the whole world wanted his fucking dick in their mouths.

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium: <strong>Anyways, you shouldn't be so hard on Kick Ass.

* * *

><p>Fuck, I wanted to put <em>my<em> dick in _Kylie's_ mouth. Maybe it'd shut her up from gushing about that fuck off.

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium: <strong>I mean, it must be lonely, right? Heroes always have such a difficulty relating to anyone. I bet he doesn't have many friends. :(

**KingVariant: **The last thing he needs is a fucking side kick to help him rescue cats from trees.

**Delight'sDelirium: **Yeah, but everyone could use a friend. It prolly sucks, being the only one. Everything's better in a group!

* * *

><p>Something clicked, then, in my head. Better in a group. <em>Better in a group<em>.

Those two fucking shit heads, and my old man's dead men. Kick Ass. Heroes running around in fucking groups!

Fucking of _course_. There was no way they hadn't met, regardless of how much of a joke Kick Ass was. If they were running around in super hero costumes there was no fucking way they weren't goddamn fanboys, and fanboys always wanted to group up. Comics always had heroes – fuck, even villains – milling around in a giant fuck off posse.

And if Kick Ass, with all his bullshit, could manage to get close to those two fucking pricks...

* * *

><p><strong>KingVariant: <strong>Hey, Ky. I don't mean to bail on you – I really do wanna talk to you. Been looking forward to it all day. But I gotta go talk to my dad about something. Talk to me later, yeah? Promise I'll be back soon.

**Delight'sDelirium: **Oh, sure! I hope everything's okay...

**KingVariant: **Don't worry your pretty little head about it, sweetheart.

* * *

><p>Setting my phone on the counter, I slid off the stool, all but running for the balcony. Gigante was gonna have to fucking wait.<p>

It was _my_ time, _this _time.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> Sorry, it's slow moving. I uh... really like rambling. Writing Chris is probably the most fun I've had in aaaaages. Punch me for over indulging.


	4. Red Mist has Entered the Ring

**_Rosario_**

When I woke up the next morning, I could barely pull myself from bed. I'd stayed up far too late talking to Chris. True to his word, he'd returned an hour or so after going to talk to his dad – and while before he'd seemed somewhat guarded, something had changed. He was warm, almost. If one could be animated over the internet, he managed it.

He seemed really happy and excited about something, and although he wouldn't clarify what about, I found his good humor infectious and couldn't keep from smiling. I showed him the sketch I'd managed to start on at school, and he seemed extremely pleased with the results. Despite the roughness of it he showered me with compliments that left me feeling dizzy with glee.

I'd even managed to get him to talk about himself with a promise that I'd give him some of myself in return. He was three and a half years older than me, about to go into college after taking off from school for a bit, and the only son of two wealthy parents: one a doctor, the other a lawyer. With aspirations of becoming an author, he worried that he'd never be able to live up to their lofty expectations. _"We've never been particularly close, my parents and I. They're more prone to throwing money my way than affection."_

While sad, he assured me it wasn't anything I should worry about. He was used to it, he said, and it wasn't really a big deal anymore – more something that had bothered him when he was younger. The money, he assured me, didn't hurt. I could only imagine.

In turn, I told him a bit about my living situation: how I'd lived with my aunt since I was ten when my mother had passed, and how I never knew my father. I got the feeling he wanted to ask me for details, but he didn't press the issue, and I was thankful for that. It was something I preferred not to think about, generally speaking. I felt comfortable with him, but I didn't feel comfortable with my memories.

He was kind about it though, and told me I'd turned out lovely despite what had happened.

The conversation eventually moved to comics and he talked to me a lot about the things he liked and collected. His taste was incredibly diverse and he knew a lot about things I didn't know – but this also meant he knew tons about what I _did_ know, and he seemed eager to talk to me about whatever interested me.

While Marty, Todd and Dave seemed promising, they were new and I didn't have much experience with them yet. Before them, I'd never really had anyone to talk comics with, as I hadn't had any comic friends back home. It wasn't that I had no one to geek out with – that wasn't the case at all. But it was a different kind of geekery. It was easier to find a video game fan, or say, someone into Harry Potter, than it was someone who read comics, at least at the small school I'd gone to.

But Chris seemed to delight in talking to me about comics, and he managed to make everything he mentioned sound fascinating. When I told him money didn't permit me to buy things indiscriminately, he sent me links to torrented versions of some of his favorites. _"If you don't tell, I won't." _I downloaded them on the spot and made a mental note to read them as soon as possible.

Around three in the morning, when I told him I really needed to get to bed, he apologized profusely for keeping me up. I wouldn't let him – it had been _my_ choice, after all, and I was more than happy to talk to him. I even admitted that I'd been aching to all day – and immediately regretted it. It had kind of slipped out in my exhaustion, and while it was true, I was more than a little embarrassed.

I tried to take it back, apologizing for it, but he didn't want me to. _"Don't. It makes me happy to hear that. Meeting you is worth so much more than that drawing, Ky. I'm glad I worked up the nerve to talk to you."_

Laying in bed, barely awake on three hours of sleep, I could only think of him saying that. I pulled my covers up to my chin, wishing I didn't have to go to school, wishing that I could sleep the day away until I could talk to him again.

It was the possibility of seeing him before class that finally motivated me to pull myself from my warm bed and into the cold morning air. With chattering teeth, I turned up my space heater before I shook the mouse of my computer to wake it up. It made those strange humming noises it always did before the screen flickered on. Just like me, my computer was _not_ a morning person.

I'd left AIM on, and while he was online, he was set to idle. He told me he'd leave AIM up on his phone if I needed to catch him for something. _"Ghetto text messages. You should get it for your phone too, it'll work great." _He'd seemed very surprised to learn I didn't have one. _"We're going to need to fix that." _While I wasn't entirely sure what he meant by that, it made me happy that he seemed displeased over not having an easy way to reach me if I wasn't home.

I sent him a quick good morning, wondering if he'd respond. But of course it was six in the morning – and without school he'd have little reason to be up. I'd been lucky the day before; not so much now. My message went unanswered.

Disappointed, I went about my normal morning preparations. Shower. Put on clothes. Try to fix hair. I ate breakfast at the computer because Cherry was at the diner working an early shift – though I probably would have done it regardless. Absently, I browsed the web, my eyes constantly drifting to his window in the hopes of seeing it flash. I tried to will him awake, tried to will AIM's chime to ding. I was selfish, and I didn't care. I couldn't help it.

I was smitten.

Ten minutes before I had to leave, while tying the laces of my shoes, I heard AIM go off. Darting to my computer, I nearly tripped over Tribbles who gave me the most scathing of glares. It wasn't Chris, though. It was Marty.

He'd asked me for a phone number after lunch, but I told him I didn't have one. I mean, Cherry had her little prepaid thing, but I didn't feel comfortable giving that out to him as she mostly used it for emergencies or to contact her work. I'd given him my AIM instead, and he'd seemed content with the explanation.

* * *

><p><strong>CapnBattleBerg: <strong>yo red gonna sit with us at lunch today :) :) :)

**Delight'sDelirium: **That was the plan, bossman. I haven't met anyone as interesting as the Nerd Trio yet.

**CapnBattleBerg: **im hurt red wounded even. youre just looking to replace us the second someone more cool comes along i see how it is! :(

**Delight'sDelirium: **Frankly I doubt I'm gonna find anyone else who can discuss minotaur dick seriously so I think I'm stuck with you.

**CapnBattleBerg: **is that one of your fetishes cause id totally rock that so hard for you, red

**Delight'sDelirium: **Good, because I doubt I'm gonna find anyone else who will. Not too many people can really live up to that one.

**CapnBattleBerg: **i live to serve. btw you should come get coffee with us after school i hereby forbid you from having any plans :)

**Delight'sDelirium: **I love how I'm given a choice. :)

**CapnBattleBerg: **someone once told me bitches love confidence. you know like "im gonna do you in your butt" "oh marty take me now."

**Delight'sDelirium: **How's that working for you?

**CapnBattleBerg: **are you going to coffee with us

**Delight'sDelirium: **Yeah, sure, why not?

**CapnBattleBerg: **BAM QUESTION ANSWERED WORKING AS INTENDED. what about the buttsex

Delight'sDelirium: Don't push your luck, bro.

**CapnBattleBerg: **yes'm. see you at school lady!

* * *

><p>He signed off, and I sighed, running my fingers through my hair. Still no Chris. <em>KingVariant<em> mocked me with his idle status. Setting myself to away, I went to make amends with Tribbles before going into the kitchen to make lunch, mentally preparing myself for eight hours of school.

A few days ago, a school day would have felt like nothing. Barring my initial anxiety, school had never been an unpleasant experience, and I found the hours of the day passed by without any real notice. But a few days ago, I didn't have something to look forward to. Funny how anticipation seemed to slow the time to an agonizing crawl.

_**Genovese**_

It was five o'clock, and I could do nothing but watch the screen of my fucking phone impatiently, waiting for something that wasn't coming. My father sat beside me, happy for the first time in days, laughing into his phone. "I know – fucking Chris. My fucking son. A goddamn _genius_."

It was only my old man's good humor that saved mine from childish sulking. I'd looked up where she went to school – I'd fucking checked the time she'd be out. And that was two and a half fucking hours ago. I knew damn well it wouldn't take her that long to walk home. Google maps had given me an estimate somewhere around thirty minutes.

I knew I wasn't being fair, but I was frustrated regardless. I tried to tell myself she'd probably gone to nap or something – I mean, I'd fucking kept her up. Selfish, I know; but I didn't care. Her attention thrilled me, excited me. It was validation that I had _power_. Something that, in the wake of my old man, I rarely had a chance to exercise.

I mean, I guess it wasn't that I didn't have power in other things. I did. But people feared me because of my old man, not because of who I was – not because of _me_. My power came from his. With her, though, it was all me. My shots. My ability to manipulate.

"Chris. Chris! Fucking look at this!" My old man shook my shoulder, gesturing with his phone to the TV screen hanging from the ceiling of the car. "Look, goddammit. It's you!"

Laying my phone against my thigh, I indulged him finally. And it _was_ me. It had been a busy day after all.

You couldn't tell it was me of course, though my old man said he recognized the cut of my nose through the mask. I chalked it up to parental familiarity, though – beyond that, I was a fucking red _mystery_.

Kylie's comment the night before had given me the bright fucking idea of creating my _own_ masked persona. I'd become a hero, too, enough of one to draw out Kick Ass or those two fuckheads that were giving my old man so much shit. And then my old man would see them fucked _right_ up.

Because like Kylie said – fucking _groups_. It made _so much sense_.

My old man had been thrilled at the idea. He'd grabbed me by the shoulders and shaken me, thrown his arms around me, laughed and laughed until there were tears on his goddamn cheeks. I don't think he'd ever been so fucking proud.

Except I didn't want to go in with the small fry shit like Kick Ass; I wanted to be fucking big – and my old man was more than willing to oblige. He picked someone in the business that he didn't care too fucking much for, and I'd gone in as Red Mist and fucked his shit up. It was a set-up, but a goddamn glorious one, and the world was eating it up. Vigilante justice was shutting down the goddamn _mob._

Red Mist had fucking _entered the ring_. There was no saving some punk ass kid from small time muggers. There was fucking _me_ putting a bunch of mobsters _six feet fucking under_.

The news had been having a fucking shitstorm about it all day, and every time the vaguest hint of it was mentioned my dad would start laughing his goddamn ass off, clapping me on the shoulder and telling me how fucking smart I was. I think my shoulder even started to bruise.

And I fucking fed off it, like a goddamn drug. Every time I saw my face on the screen, I'd get a little giddy, like getting a hit of some really good drug. It was similar to the way talking to Kylie made me feel – like when she told me she'd waited all day to fucking talk to _me_.

Vainly, I wanted to know her reaction to fucking Red Mist. At least hearing her gush about _that_ would be bearable, because I'd know it was fucking _me _she was creaming her panties over, and not that green fucking joke.

But she wouldn't _get on_. I needed something to calm my nerves. I'd already asked my old man if he had any pot, but he'd left it at home. Caffeine was the next best thing.

"Hey." I turned my head from the screen to look at my dad. "Can we get some coffee? I'm all fucking jittery. May as well make it worse."

My old man hit the back of the driver's seat, his laughter filling the cab of the car. "You fucking heard that Tom. Let's go get the kid some fucking coffee – in a goddamn gold fucking mug."

There was a family owned coffee joint just down the road, so it wasn't a long trip. Dad loved the place and said it was better than the shit they served at Starbucks, but really I think he had the hots for one of the chicks who worked the counter – some little blonde bitch who always acted hot for him. I didn't think much of her or anyone _else_ there, but they did have pretty good coffee cake.

The place was always nightmare busy so Tom let us out about half a block away. Marco didn't seem too fucking thrilled about my old man walking around with 'fucking costumed cocksuckers' roaming the streets, but dad managed to calm him by pointing out that the two psychopaths hadn't done anything in the public eye yet. He must have really been hard for that girl to risk it.

While the day was darkening quickly, the sky was clear, the air cool but not cold. It felt fucking nice to be outside, the air on my skin invigorating. Still, even with my dad rambling on about how fucking amazing I was, I kept checking my phone. Nothing. Where the fuck _was_ she?

"Chris. What is with you and that goddamn thing? You aren't usually so fucking tethered to it." My dad's voice cut in on my growing annoyance as we approached the coffee joint.

"Nothing," I managed under my breath. "Just fucking checking on something."

"Don't be so fucking dour, kid. You worked fucking voodoo magic!" His hand came down on my shoulder again, and I struggled to suppress a flinch. My shoulder was really getting sore.

The joint was hopping with people – old people, young people, couples, mothers with their whining shitty kids. It always was. It didn't matter what time of the day it was, there was always a fucking mob there. There was a line out the fucking door, and people were sitting on the goddamn floor of the patio, pouring themselves into school work, watching YouTube videos on laptops. There was nowhere else for them to sit; all the seats had been taken.

I was beginning to regret my desire for coffee. The noise was deafening as my old man and I moved into the line, my dad still going on about something I wasn't paying any attention to. Marco towered behind us, his arms crossed across his broad chest, his mouth a hard line. He probably wasn't listening either.

I could make out snippets of conversations, though, and it seemed like a lot of people were talking about Red Mist. I was pleased – if only because it meant they weren't gushing about fucking Kick Ass. But it was only a distraction. Kylie. Where the fuck was Kylie?

Digging my hands in my pockets, I tried to make myself relax. Something was just holding her up. It wasn't a big deal.

"Stop staring, you don't wanna end up with fucking horse heads in your bed, do you?"

It was said in a hushed whisper, followed by obnoxious fucking laughter, and it cut _right _through my thoughts.

Turning my head to the right to find the source, I met four pairs of quickly diverting eyes. One of them was bright _fucking_ green.

There she was. _Kylie_.

_**Rosario**_

"Shit, shit, he's looking over here, and he looks fucking pissed," Marty hissed, ducking his head behind his pumpkin latte. "Swear to god we're all gonna fucking wake up dead."

"You can't wake up dead, asshole," Todd laughed, batting at Marty's latte with the back of his hand. "'sides, I mean, the guy's prolly used to it."

"But that's his fucking dad! It's not just him and Andre the giant this time, that's his _fucking _dad!" Marty seemed almost panicky, barely managing to save his latte from tumbling off the table.

While I thought Marty was probably over reacting, the Genovese kid _did_ seem to be shooting daggers in our general direction.

"Guys, I'm not sure the horse head comment was the best of plans," I murmured, faking seriousness as I took a drink of my hot chocolate. "We probably _will_ wake up dead."

Marty bumped his fist into shoulder, grinning in spite of his obvious unease. "Fucking told you. Red agrees. Red, we gotta make a break for Mexico. It's our only goddamn hope."

Dave had barely looked up at the horse head comment, immediately returning his attention back to his phone. He'd been texting Katie all night long and his seat may as well have been empty for how little he'd spoken the past few hours. "You guys wouldn't make it in Mexico," he said vaguely. "Marty can't handle Taco Bell, you think he'd survive on authentic Mexican?"

Todd chuckled into his drink. "Yeah, gives him the fucking shits."

While Marty made a grand attempt to kick the two of them in the balls, I let my gaze drift back over to the dark haired kid in the line. His eyes found mine immediately, and there was an expression on his face that I couldn't read. A sort of half smile played across his lips, and I was unnerved that he didn't break his gaze.

It wasn't that holding someone's gaze bothered me. In fact, keeping eye contact was something my speech teachers had always been impressed with. I wasn't afraid to look people in the face when I had conversations with them – it showed confidence and I'd never really had problems with that. But we weren't talking, and we didn't know each other. He was bold to not break it off, the gaze too intimate for our limited knowledge of one another.

His father stood beside him, talking animatedly, and yet Chris Genovese seemed oblivious.

Clearly, I shared his negligence.

"Ky! Wake the hell up!" Marty's hand was on my shoulder, shaking me from my distraction. The three of them were looking at me as if I were crazy. "Dude's prolly like Medusa, if you look at him too long, you'll turn to fucking stone."

"Yeah, you know him or something? I mean – you fucking know who he _is_ right?" Todd cast a stealthy look in Chris' direction. By this point, they were close to the door, about to enter the shop.

"I met him at a comic book shop the other day, actually," I answered lamely, as if this explained why we'd been staring at each other a moment ago. "We got into an argument about Kick Ass."

"Shit, that explains that evil fucking look," Marty shook his head, running his hands through his hair. "He's gonna kill you Ky, he's gonna tear you to pieces."

"Oh please," I rolled my eyes at him, mildly exasperated. "It wasn't a big deal at all. I mean, he's what, our age? He's just a kid. I doubt he's got a vicious bone in his body."

Even Dave was watching me now, his phone face down on the table. "Guy's a nerd, but you should be careful Ky. Nerd rage is the _worst_. Don't wanna sleep with the fishes."

Todd was wiggling his fingers at me. "Power corrupts!" He was trying to make his voice sound spooky, but it came out with more of a quaver.

While Chris Genovese made me nervous, the three of them were making such a ridiculous fuss. I kind of understood now why the guy had seemed so oddly hostile back at the comic store – I knew I would be if I had to deal with people half-mocking me in their fear of me everywhere I went.

Standing up, I pulled my messenger bag from under the table to put it in my chair. I didn't want anyone stealing my seat. "I'm gonna go show you pansies that you're freaking out for no reason," I declared, turning on my heel before any of them tried to say something smart.

Cutting through the patio was like navigating a maze of bodies, but I kept my eyes focused on Chris, nimbly dodging other customers, my motions overly dramatic. I wanted them to see how nonchalant I was – and I wanted _him_ to see me coming. _Fearless_.

And he saw me coming. His eyes held mine, bright in the lighting of the patio, and even his father noticed, pausing in conversation to watch me with a curious expression on his face.

Their body guard tensed, visibly, and for a moment I faltered. His expression was anything but kind. But Chris waved his hand, his mouth moving as if he were saying something, and the guy backed off, his shoulders relaxing. I'd been given permission.

I waltzed up to him boldly, standing barely a foot away, and put on my best smile. "Hello again, Chris," I began, keeping my tone light. "New York is a smaller city than I thought!"

"Or your luck isn't the greatest," he answered with a smirk. "And I'm more inclined to think it's your luck, in this case."

"Bad luck? Is it really?" I gave him an exaggerated pout. "That's mean. I was happy to see you." I paused for a moment, then decided to try said luck. "I actually was hoping I would."

"Were you, now?" I could tell he was trying to sound nonchalant, but there was a note of surprise to his voice. He recovered quickly though, his voice finding that smug sense of superiority. "Can't keep your mind off me, huh?" Behind him, his father looked between us as if he could barely follow what was happening before him, his eyebrows raised. He did not look like a man who was often perplexed.

"Oh, you know," I patted his arm. "Maybe not to _that_ degree. But after the news, I was desperately curious to know what you thought about the new guy in town."

"New guy?" One eyebrow raised, and he maintained that grin perfectly.

"Oh, you know how we quarreled some about Kick Ass?" His jaw set when I mentioned Kick Ass' name, so I pressed on quickly, eager to salvage the ground I worried I was losing. "Well – have you heard of Red Mist?"

It was strange, how quickly that aggression seemed to drain from him, how fast that frown flipped back up into that self-satisfied leer. "Ah, yes. I _have_."

I expected him to elaborate, but he merely looked down at me, that smirk beginning to undo my confidence. What was _with _him?

Putting my hands on my hips, I gave him a pointed look. "Well? Do you hate him _too_?"

The line was moving, but he stepped out, crossing the space between us so that he was almost against me. I could feel the heat of his body, feel his breath against the top of my head. I took a step back, then, far too uneasy to bother with _that_ test of wills.

"You know what I want, Dad," he said with a wave of his hand, his eyes never leaving my face. "I'll wait out here."

Their body guard looked as if he was going to say something, but Chris' father stopped him, ushering him silently into the door. I wondered how common an occurence this was.

"So. Where were we?" There was an edge to his voice that began to cut away at the courage I'd had in spades only a few minutes ago.

"Red Mist." I hated the uncertainty in my voice.

"Ah, yeah, yeah. Sorry." He shook his head and laughed in a way that told me he wasn't sorry at all. "I forgot. But yes, _Kylie_, maybe masked vigilantes aren't so bad. Red Mist is actually managing to do some _damage_ after all, I'll give him that."

Suddenly his hands were on my shoulders, and he leaned down, his face next to mine. His breath smelled like peppermint and pot, hot against my face. His closeness made me dizzy, and I wanted so badly to pull away. "But it's really not that good for my dad's business." His voice was a whisper, so quiet I could barely hear him. His teeth glimmered in the light. "So maybe you should consider who you fucking ask about shit like that, sweetheart."

Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. Was he threatening me? I could feel every beat of my heart, feel the blood in my veins, throbbing and surreal. His eyes burned into mine, that smile never faltering.

One hand dropped from my shoulder to my lower arm, his fingertips brushing across the skin there. Instinct kicked in, finally, and I pulled away from him, my voice failing in my throat.

"Cold?" He laughed, the sound arrogant and sharp. "You've got gooseflesh."

I shook my head at him mutely, trying to calm myself, trying to calm my heart. I was furious with myself – and with him – for undoing me so easily.

Suddenly, that smile died on his face, replaced with something like dark fury. And then there was a hand at my shoulder, an unsure voice behind me.

"Red, c'mon. Let's go. We got that pre-cal test to study for. Shit's gonna eat me alive unless we get to it."

Marty. I wanted to turn, to throw my arms around him. He already had my bag draped on his shoulder. Glancing backwards, I saw that Todd and Dave were gone.

I looked back to Chris, finding his focus no longer on me, but on Marty. Any hint of that smile was gone, cold hatred in its wake. "Chris," I said, and his eyes flashed back to me, burning with ice fire. "It was nice seeing you."

Marty's hand found my wrist, his fingers hot and damp. He pulled me towards the gates of the patio, his back already to the both of us. The muscles of his neck were taut with anxiety. I realized suddenly how awkward a situation this was for him, and I felt terrible for dragging him into it.

Looking back, I saw Chris watching us us go. His eyes found me, holding mine with a ferocity that won over my tenacity. I had to break his gaze. It frightened me too much.

"I doubt it'll be the last, Kylie," I heard him call out over the dim roar of the crowd.

Marty's fingers on my wrist tightened, almost painfully, and when I caught up to him, his expression was ghost white. I knew he'd heard it, too.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>Hopefully Marty's aim stuff isn't so hard to read; I imagine he doesn't feel he has any need to be all fancy.

Speaking of Marty, in my constant re-reading of Kick Ass 1 and 2, I've discovered a bit of a contradiction! In the very first issue, while Kick Ass is walking out of school, talking to his friends, he addresses the tall dark one as "Toddie". They're arguing about Spiderman's web shooters. Kay, I figure. That's Todd. I'd always thought as much.

Then, later on in Kick Ass 1 in issue 3, it shows him walking next to the short chunkier guy and in a box it says "My Best Friend, Toddy Haynes". Wut?

So I'm freaking out having gone over this cause I've already established Todd as the tall lanky one in my story and the shorter chunkier one as Marty. I know for sure that Marty is Battle Guy in Kick Ass 2 (hence his AIM name), so I go and check. Sure enough, in Kick Ass 2, issue 2, Dave recognizes Battle Guy's voice when he's sharing his origin story and is like "OH MY GOD YOU'RE MARTY EISENBERG!"

So clearly there's a mistake in issue 3! When Dave and Marty _do_ end up dragging Todd into their super hero collective, he's dressed in bondage gear and looks considerably taller than either than them - leading me to believe that good ol' Toddy was meant to be the tall one.

I've been pretty chuffed since discovering this. Just had to share it. Two of my roomies who both read comics were like, "Uh... wtf, why are you looking this closely?" I have to keep telling them it's so I can fact check for this fanfic. And it's true! Because I honest to god never noticed it before, and I've read them over a million bajillion times.


	5. Obsessive Infatuation

_****_**AN: **Again, there's a wee bit of self-sex (like, a sentence's worth) in this chapter, so if you're opposed to that kinda thing...

* * *

><p><em><strong>Genovese<strong>_

The drive back was awkward but thankfully short as we weren't that far from home. My old man would not stop harassing me, his eyes insistent, overwhelmingly curious. Who was she? Why hadn't I mentioned her? It gave me a fucking headache and I didn't feel like discussing it with him. Eventually though, my evasive answers gave him the hint he needed and he busied himself with phone calls to people I didn't care enough about to eavesdrop on.

Earlier, I might have told him about it. I'd already planned out what I wanted to say. _"She's some chick I met at the comic store. We hit it off." _Okay, maybe not planned. That was the _truth_. Sort of. I'd hit it off. Fuck, I'd hit it off _hard_. But Marco was there, and I knew he'd try to undermine me – and besides, I was too furious to even comprehend having some kind of regular conversation about her.

I made it home before she did. I kept checking my phone, fucking checking to see if she'd come back off idle yet, feeling my anger rise a bit more every time. Was she really going to go study with that fat fuck? How the hell had she managed to make so many fucking new friends after two days of school?

She'd mentioned them the night before. I'd been agitated, maybe a little jealous, but it wasn't fucking like this - maybe because I didn't realize it was going to progress so quickly to coffee dates. He'd fucking _touched_ her. Her shoulder, her wrist. _That fucking_ _dick_.

Alone in my room, I wanted to destroy something. I wanted to rip the posters from my wall, even briefly considering throwing my iMac through the fucking window. The thought of it falling and nailing some sorry fuck was an amusing one, but it failed to calm me. Instead I went and laid on my bed, digging my fingers into her scarf, and imagined putting a bullet through that shit head's brain. _He'd fucking touched her!_

I lost track of time laying there, seething. There was a knock on my door, once, twice – it was only on the third time that I called through the door, told my old man to leave me alone. Lying, I told him I needed a nap, that I was tired. If he answered, I didn't hear him. There was a sound in my ears, like roaring wind. Hissing.

Sometime later, I heard that chime. I briefly considered ignoring it, knowing that my temper was a danger to my plans, but even as I tried to restrain myself I could feel my fucking willpower melting. I'd wanted to talk to her all day – fucking _needed_ it. So what if I was angry at her? I'd gotten so goddamn amazing at wearing masks, I figured I could keep it under wraps.

In the very least she wouldn't know _why_ I was angry.

I pulled my Macbook out from under my bed because I was too lazy to mess with my phone's shitty touch keyboard. Her window was minimized; I'd had to get some pictures of various costumes I had ideas from in order so I could get a costume made at the last minute. Apparently my old man's situation was dire, and he was super fucking eager to get shit started. I'd been amazed at how quickly everything had fallen together, even considering how fast my old man tended to work.

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium: <strong>Hey Chris! Sorry I missed your earlier messages. : I went out for coffee after school.

* * *

><p>I placed my fingers over the keys, my jaw fucking <em>aching<em> from how hard I was clenching my teeth. My eyes found the clock; it'd been about an hour since coffee. It would have taken her thirty minutes to walk home, which gave her thirty minutes that were unaccounted for. Had she fucking spent it with _him_?

* * *

><p><strong>KingVariant: <strong>That all?

**Delight'sDelirium: **Um... yeah. Well, I had to stop on the way home to pick up some more eggs, they're pretty much all I eat for breakfast, but I didn't think it was worth mentioning.

* * *

><p>It seemed likely that was true, but my paranoia encouraged my anger, feeding my jealousy.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>KingVariant: <strong>I guess you're making fast friends then.

**Delight'sDelirium: **What makes you say that?

**KingVariant: **Well, you know, going out after two days.

**Delight'sDelirium: **Oh, well, I mean they're really cool people. Honestly I don't usually make friends so quickly, and it's a little strange getting used to it. Sorry, I'm a bit out of sorts, though. The whole coffee experience was really bizarre. It kinda threw me.

* * *

><p>Running my tongue along my teeth, I wondered if I should risk it, asking her about it. But it was too hard not to. I was never very good at self-restraint.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>KingVariant: <strong>What do you mean?

**Delight'sDelirium: **Do you remember that other Chris I mentioned to you? The one I met the same day you introduced yourself to me?

**KingVariant: **I remember something vaguely along those lines.

**Delight'sDelirium: **I ran into him while getting coffee and he's... well, I guess to put it bluntly he scares me.

* * *

><p>I felt like this confession should make me angry, like I should be upset that she was terrified of me. Or was it <em>guilt<em> I was supposed to feel? But the only thing I felt was this _nasty_ sort of _glee_. As obvious as her fear had been to me then, there was something rewarding about her admitting to me _now_ that she had been frightened. Maybe it was the validation that it had been a lasting fear, maybe it was that it shook her up enough to tell some near fucking stranger about it, or maybe it was just that I was fucking addicted to her discomfort. Regardless, she'd sobered me up. That hatred I'd felt pulsing through my body like a hit from a bad drug was already a dull memory.

* * *

><p><strong>KingVariant: <strong>Why the hell would some kid you met in a comic shop scare you? No offense, Ky, but that's a little silly.

**Delight'sDelirium: **I... it sounds stupid but I don't know. He told me his last name was Genovese.

**KingVariant: **Lol! The crime family? And you believed him? Have I told you I'm actually part of England's royal family?

**Delight'sDelirium: **Don't tease me! He had like, this whole box of comics. An entire -box-! I think he was buying like... every new release that was out. So he clearly has money. And a body guard! He had a body guard! Why would he have a body guard if he wasn't someone important? That guy was a beast of a man!

**KingVariant: **So you're afraid of him because he's supposedly involved with the mob?

* * *

><p>That idea stung a little. I mean, her being afraid of me for family relations was a good enough reason to start with, but I certainly didn't want that to be the <em>only<em> fucking reason.

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium: <strong>No, see, when I met him, I wasn't really aware of that. I mean, he made it fairly clear early on, but even before that, I felt like something was off. He just seems so... aggressive.

* * *

><p>Good. It was so much better when it was <em>me<em> she was afraid of, and not my fucking last name.

* * *

><p><strong>KingVariant: <strong>Lol. Maybe he's got a crush on you.

**Delight'sDelirium: **What, the pull-your-pigtails-on-the-playground kind of crush? Except in this case it's horse-head-in-your-bed kind of crush, if it's anything...

**KingVariant: **Or steal you from your room at night kind of crush. I mean, if the kid has mob ties...

**Delight'sDelirium: **LOL! I doubt the mob wants to waste resources so frivolously. I also doubt that's the case – that he's got a crush on me, I mean. I just don't see it. Besides, you're the only villain for me, Chris. :)

* * *

><p>At first, I'd worried that in my arrogance I was seeing things that weren't there. Intimacy in her teasing, those flirtatious comments – it could have just been her fucking playing with me. But she'd seemed so open and eager last night, and when she told me how she'd <em>ached<em> to talk to me – it was much harder to deny myself the ego boost then.

Or my growing erection.

* * *

><p><strong>KingVariant: <strong>So are you saying it's okay for me to steal into your room at night and whisk you away?

**Delight'sDelirium: **Haha... maybe. :) But it kind of defeats the purpose to ask!

**KingVariant: **As lovely as that train of thought is, Kylie, I have something I've wanted to ask you.

**Delight'sDelirium: **It's like I can hear you talking to me; you sound so serious all of a sudden. :( Is this bad?

**KingVariant: **I guess that depends on how you answer the question.

**Delight'sDelirium: **?

* * *

><p>Sitting there, it was hard to will myself to ask it. Dread was seeping into my limbs, making my hands feel like they were full of fucking lead. What would I do if she answered the question wrong? The very possibility of it happening brought back a whisper of that earlier loathing.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>KingVariant: <strong>Do you have a boyfriend?

* * *

><p>I was pleased with how quickly she answered. Like she was <em>trying<em> to reassure me.

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium: <strong>Oh! No. Not anymore. Not since a bit before I left Massachusetts actually.

* * *

><p>The mysterious Logan. I'd gone back to her blog awhile back, looked at each and every entry, but none before or after the break-up message had mentioned anything about him. The discovery had left me feeling both relieved <em>and<em> smug – he must not have been that important if she didn't post anything about him besides that.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, she _had_ posted the sketch she'd done for me – and mentioned that it was for _me_ in the entry by name. _"Rough sketch for my good friend Chris."_ I'd been fucking _thrilled_.

* * *

><p><strong>KingVariant: <strong>Hmmm. Good.

**Delight'sDelirium: **Is it now?

**KingVariant: **Probably could even say excellent. But are you interested in anyone at school?

**Delight'sDelirium: **Is there a reason you're asking this? :)

**KingVariant: **Maybe.

* * *

><p>She did that thing where it took her awhile to respond, and I couldn't appreciate it this time. While it was likely she was struck by a moment of shyness, it could just as easily be that she <em>was<em> interested in someone else – possibly even that fat fucking asshole – and wanted a way to let me down easy.

When I'd considered using the internet to get close to her, I hadn't planned for the possibility of real life interfering. I mean, she wasn't some kind of beauty queen or anything, but she was certainly fucking _cute _with her little freckles and dainty features and soft curls. And while I hated those fucking cunts who abused it, cute nerdy girls _do_ tend to be a bit of a rare commodity. Especially to fat – probably virgin – fuckholes.

What _if_ that fucking dick stole her away from me? What would I do then?

I could only hope that my old man would be feeling generous after I managed to net him what he was after, but even that fantasy was a stretch. Dad tried to avoid dirtying his hands where he didn't need to, and I doubt he'd take my little obsessive infatuation seriously enough to have someone _murdered_ for it. If he wasn't outright appalled by it, anyways.

Not that I wouldn't want to be the one to fucking end the kid. I soothed myself with the knowledge that if I did, my old man probably _would_ cover it up. If I was lucky I'd make it out with little more than him verbally tearing me a new asshole. He was always complaining I didn't take enough initiative, anyway.

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium: <strong>You know, I can't say I am. I mean it's been two days, but I just don't see myself wanting to get in a relationship with anyone at school any time soon.

* * *

><p>The admission made me feel better, but not completely. Especially the bit about "two days". Did that mean it could change at any moment?<p>

I stared at my screen for awhile, wondering what the fuck I should say. My experience with women was honestly fairly limited. Money always put a different spin on things, and this wasn't a fucking strip club. I'd never fucking tried to kid myself that any of _those_ women were _interested_ in me. If anything, knowing it was my money that reduced those women to eager little _whores_ was part of the kick for me – it validated my opinion that money could buy almost anything I wanted.

But I got the impression that Ky couldn't be bought like that. I was also fairly certain I'd have no interest in her if she could.

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium: <strong>Chris?

**KingVariant: **What?

**Delight'sDelirium: **Why'd you ask?

**KingVariant: **I bet you can guess, Ky.

* * *

><p>There was no fucking way she couldn't see where this was going, and that was actually what I wanted. I felt we were moving fast – possibly even too fast – but I was worried about these new friends of hers at school, nervous about my own inability to have seen that flaw in my plan before it presented itself. This was just a desperate attempt to cover lost ground.<p>

Not that everything was based entirely on some fucking plan. I mean, there was more to it than that, as odd as that is for me to admit to myself. When I compared her to the other girls I'd dealt with, she was certainly fucking far and above the rest. I mean, I'd never felt _anything_ for them. Being horny did not mean I fucking cared anything for them besides how hot they looked when they bounced their tits for me or how coyly they could smile at me from under their lashes. There was no _emotional_ investment.

If any of those girls had gone and let a group of guys run a goddamn train on them, I wouldn't have fucking cared. Hell, I might have even jacked off to it.

But the thought of anyone even fucking _touching_ Kylie filled me with this impossibly _violent_ kind of rage – let alone the idea that she'd be _interested_ in someone else.

* * *

><p><strong>Delight'sDelirium: <strong>I guess I could guess, but I'd worry I was being too presumptuous.

**KingVariant: **Being presumptuous is probably not something you need to worry too much about now, Kylie.

**Delight'sDelirium: **Maybe, but I don't wanna push my luck. Not yet, anyways... but. But! I wanted to ask you something!

* * *

><p>So she was playing evasive. While it didn't fully eliminate the possibility of complications, I felt a bit more assured that she wasn't going to run off with that fat bastard at the coffee joint.<p>

I also didn't think she was the sort to lead someone on – either me _or_ that dick. And while I considered confessing my infatuation for her in an effort to keep her tied down, the turn of the conversation was some mild assurance that I didn't need to. If I was reading her right, I was still her number one. We'd work on eliminations _later_. I'd been liking that slow – if needy – pace we'd been building before. There was no fun in fucking blowing through something without savoring it first.

* * *

><p><strong>KingVariant: <strong>What?

**Delight'sDelirium: **Did you hear about that new hero? Red Mist? :)

**KingVariant: **I did, actually.

**Delight'sDelirium: **Well? What'd you think? Or are you gonna give me the Kick Ass lecture again? :(

**KingVariant: **Lol, they're completely different Ky. One saves a dude from getting beat up. The other is shutting down Russian mobsters. Still not as cool as a villain, but I can understand your fondness a little bit better, at least. ;)

**Delight'sDelirium: **His costume is pretty wicked. I mean – comparatively anyways. It's obvious he put some more thought into it. Or effort.

* * *

><p>It was funny because we'd had it put together rather haphazardly and without much thought. I'd had my input, of course, as the pictures I had filling my browser suggested. But it had still been <em>rushed<em>. Of course anything was better than a fucking _diving suit_.

* * *

><p><strong>KingVariant: <strong>I like his use of red. It's my favorite color.

**Delight'sDelirium: **I had gathered as much from your request for your OC. :) Well, maybe not guessed it was your favorite color, but that you liked it anyways. It's a passionate color, really strong. It definitely works well for what you want done!

**KingVariant: **Lust, malice and wrath all rolled up into one fucking awesome color.

**Delight'sDelirium: **Don't forget love! :(

**KingVariant: **But we're discussing villains, Ky. Where does love fit in there? Or are you one of those romantics who can find it anywhere?

**Delight'sDelirium: **I don't know if "romantic" is the right word. Well, I mean, everyone kind of is, right? A romantic, secret or not. Wanting to be loved is a basic human need! Even some villains feel it. I mean, look at Azazel and Mystique. Azazel's like, some kinda crazy demon guy too! I mean, if a demon can do it...

**KingVariant: **Haha, oh Ky. You're fucking adorable. But you know how their relationship turned out.

**Delight'sDelirium: **Only because Azazel was too goddamn stupid to admit to it. Also because it's a comic, and thwarted, awkward longing is popular.

* * *

><p>I couldn't help my smile. She was so innocent; it was almost <em>sickening <em>how fucking _sweet _she was_._

* * *

><p><strong>KingVariant: <strong>I'd almost guess you were a bit bitter about this. :P

**Delight'sDelirium: **Not about that specifically, though it is pretty sad in that case. No, it's more that I'm still a secret little girl and I love my happy endings.

**KingVariant: **Yet you like villains more?

**Delight'sDelirium: **Maybe it's more like heroes are always portrayed as so... two dimensional or something. Like, unless you're talking about a tragic or an anti-hero, they always seem so cookie-cutter. "Butt-kicking! For goodness!" Villains have a range of motivations. Greed, selfishness, misplaced senses of justice. Some have legitimate reasons for their madness, others just revel in it. I mean, I guess you could say the same thing about heroes... but I don't know. I guess it just boils down to the fact that they just aren't as exciting.

* * *

><p>I could understand what she meant, but for entirely different reasons. It probably had something to do with the fact that I'd always identified with villains more. I couldn't imagine giving away your life to do nothing but good things for other people. What fucking fun was that? Everyone glorified a hero and his willingness to give away everything for the betterment of strangers. But that was fucking shit. I didn't care about other people. I cared only about <em>myself<em>. And if hedonism lead to villainy, so fucking be it: sign me the fuck _up_.

* * *

><p><strong>KingVariant: <strong>That's a lot of words to say you want someone to kidnap you, Kylie.

**Delight'sDelirium: **Lol! Don't be an arrogant twat. (But you're probably right.)

**KingVariant: **Probably?

**Delight'sDelirium: **Like I said – only if it's you.

* * *

><p>God. Reading those words made my hands shake. I wanted her so fucking badly at that moment. I wanted to fuck her until she <em>screamed<em>.

* * *

><p><strong>KingVariant: <strong>You never said that.

**Delight'sDelirium: **Semantics! I alluded to it.

**KingVariant: **So is that a confession?

**Delight'sDelirium: **You're a smug bastard, you know that?

**KingVariant: **And you fucking love it.

**Delight'sDelirium: **See my previous statement.

**KingVariant: **I'm only smug because I'm -right-.

**Delight'sDelirium: **That, sir, I'll admit to. But I need to go eat dinner with my aunt. :( I haven't been able to talk to her much recently because she's always at work... I'm sorry. Maybe I'll catch you later.

**KingVariant: **Pfft, going to pull an evasive maneuver like that and bail on me, Ky? I thought I was supposed to be playing the cruel one. But have a nice time, sweetheart.

**Delight'sDelirium: **Evasive? You're smart, Chris. You'll figure it out. :)

**KingVariant: **Oh, trust me. I think I have.

* * *

><p>She set herself to away and was gone.<p>

I liked how she left herself online now – even when she was at school. It was a bit of a disappointment learning she didn't have a phone so I couldn't keep track of her at school, but it was nice, knowing I had the ability to leave her messages. Not that it had killed my temptation to buy her a fucking phone just so I could keep tabs on her better, because that desire had been growing more and more as we talked. It was just a matter of broaching the subject, waiting for the right time. If I played my cards right it could work out.

But as I stared at her name, my dick fucking rock hard, it took every bit of goddamn self-control to not tell her all the terrible things I wanted to do to her. And while I got the impression I was succeeding at nurturing her budding crush on me, I wasn't sure how comfortable she'd be knowing how dark my fantasies ran.

In fact I was fairly sure I'd ruin everything if I were to confess that.

I mean, I knew she obviously ran a little on the dark side herself if her encouraging me to kidnap her was based on any kind of real fantasy. But the fact remained that most peoples' fantasies were often little more than that – fantasies. When faced with the chance of it occurring in actuality, people usually grew uncomfortable. Women, according to studies, often had rape fantasies, but that didn't mean I was stupid enough to think a girl with a rape fantasy really _wanted_ to beraped.

Kylie being one of those people wouldn't surprise me at all. She was young, and I was fairly certain she was a virgin. Imagination allowed her to taste danger in a safe environment. I doubted she'd find as much satisfaction in the reality of me breaking into her room and stealing that virginity from her in her own fucking bed.

Kidnapping would come _after_ that. And oh, the thought of what I'd do to her _then_ was almost excruciating.

I pushed my Macbook to the foot of my bed, burying my face in the soft folds of her scarf. Her smell was becoming more faint; I was thankful that whatever perfume she used was strong enough to have lasted as long as it had. I wondered what it was, and made a mental note to ask her if she wore any perfume. That way I could recreate it when it was gone.

Undoing the buttons on my slacks, I couldn't help but feel a little disappointed that our interaction was limited to online exchanges. I'd been lucky to see her in the flesh today – lucky to be able to touch her, to feel those goosebumps blossom across her arms. That fear in her eyes... she'd looked so pretty, looking up at me from under those red-gold lashes. Oh, I wanted to break her. She was so fucking _precious_.

Kicking my pants down to my ankles, I wrapped my hand around my throbbing cock, considering my options. I didn't want to risk my online persona, not until I knew everything I needed to know, not until I had her where I wanted her to be. And there was only so much I could do as Chris Genovese, considering how unlikely it would be for us to keep running into each other. I didn't go to fucking school, and our social circles didn't exactly overlap except for the comic store. That and she was terrified of _him_.

That left me with only Red Mist. And suddenly, I had the best fucking idea. The fucking _best. _It would benefit both myself, Red Mist, _and_ my old man. It was completely fucking win-win. And malicious as _fuck_.

It didn't take me long to come. It had been building for a while, and I didn't want to drag it out. I really needed to talk to my old man.

When I came, though, I was careful not to get it on her scarf, as tempting as the idea was. If I washed it, it wouldn't smell like her anymore.

And it was all I had of her.

For _now_, anyway.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>Just Chris for now. Anymore would be too much. Got something exciting planned for the next chapter though. Really just wanted to push this one out so the next one didn't seem so sudden.


	6. No Atheists in a Foxhole

"_I have to speculate  
>That God himself did make<br>Us into corresponding shapes,  
>Like puzzle pieces from the clay.<em>

_True, it may seem like a stretch -  
>But it's thoughts like this that catch<br>My troubled head when you're away,  
>When I am missing you to death."<em>

- The Postal Service, "From Such Great Heights".

_**Rosario**_

My life in New York continued to pass by smoothly, the first week blending into the next without a single hitch. I found that it was fairly easy to adjust with a network of friends, and while I missed the ones I had in Massachusetts, my new ones eased the heartache. And there was just so much to do in New York that I found it difficult to feel homesick. I couldn't miss what I was too busy to think about.

Truthfully, Chris was most of that. I could have met him regardless of where I lived, but I did spend a lot of time with him online, chatting for hours every day, often well into the night. His all-encompassing knowledge thrilled me; his wicked sense of humor charmed me. My chats with him were never boring and he could make me laugh with his dry comments and pull me out of encroaching bad moods with a few sweet words.

Not that Marty, Todd and Dave were bad friends. They did a good job of rivaling Chris for my attention and managed to be fairly endearing in their own right. Even after a week, the four of them had succeeded in unseating the friends I had back in Massachusetts. It certainly helped that we all had such a similar set of interests.

But as terrible as it sounds, I mostly appreciated the Nerd Trio's ability to make the otherwise long school days more bearable. When I found myself setting up my days up into "school" and "talk to Chris" segments, each one would seem longer than the last. Those hours at school would have been excruciatingly painful without the trio's good humor to soften the blow.

Marty was there for me in math class; he bullied some kid out of his seat so he could sit with me, and we spent the better part of the period passing notes and lewd drawings. Between periods, the four of us would meet up in the halls for brief moments to exchange snide comments or gossip. Lunch, though, was always the best part of the school day: we could be as loud and obnoxious as we wanted to without having to worry about teachers or tardies when we ended up late to class.

There were even days I put off talking to Chris to hang out with them after school. When they found out the coffee thing had been a rare indulgence on my part – coffee was _never_ cheap – they made a point of doing things that were free: we'd mess around in the park, window shop at the comic store, or just wander the streets. It was touching that they didn't seem to mind making exceptions, and I suspected their rough edges were more for show than anything based in actuality.

Marty was definitely my favorite of the trio. We talked a lot outside of school and our little excursions, and I'd usually end up juggling talking to him and Chris on AIM. Not that it was any real competition... I often neglected Marty in favor of Chris, something I couldn't help but feel a little bit guilty over.

Strange as it was, though, Marty just couldn't topple Chris. Marty was there, a real flesh-and-blood guy, and we certainly didn't have any trouble talking to each other – but it was all light-hearted fun without much substance. We talked comics or games, music or movies, school or Dave's ridiculous infatuation with Katie. After only a week we had what seemed like a billion inside jokes that left Todd and Dave with blank stares while we laughed until we couldn't breathe.

But Chris gave that to me too, and then he gave me _more_. Chris made me feel safe, gave me a level of comfort I couldn't remember anyone giving me ever. As our relationship progressed, I was able to talk to him about all the things I'd never shared with anyone. I could talk to him about my mother, about how much I missed her. I could tell him about my father, how I couldn't help but hate him even though I'd never known him. I could tell him when I was lonely, when I was sad, how bummed I got when I didn't get to see my aunt as much as I wanted to. I could tell him that it annoyed me sometimes that she had to work so much – even when I knew it was for me – and not have to worry that he'd think me a selfish bitch.

Stupid as it sounds, I even felt secure enough with him to talk about things like who I shipped in what fandoms. If I told him I wrote fanfics about various pairings, he never laughed at me and always asked to see them. He knew when to use that snide tongue of his and when to encourage me, and it was fun showing him a lot of things I'd never shown anyone. I mean, he'd actually _read_ my fanfics. And instead of making fun of me for my ridiculously bizarre pairings, he'd discuss it with me. _"I never really considered this before, but I can see where this could totally work."_ If he ever had any complaints, it was because he wanted me to clarify on something. _"I can really see (x) working with (y) but you're being too vague here. Tell me why you did (z) and I think it'd work perfectly."_

Who really did that? Most people, when commenting on anything creative, would be hard-pressed to offer more than a "Nice job," or "I don't like it." But he was always so elaborate with his praise, so gentle with his criticisms. I couldn't find it in myself to get worked up over his minor complaints; I was always too floored that he took the time to bother to take offense.

If I had something to tell him, he listened with perfect attention. As someone who was always the listener, I hadn't ever realized I had so much to say before I met Chris. He pulled it from me effortlessly and always left me feeling so warm and... I don't know. Cared for.

By the end of that second week, I felt it was safe to say I was mad for him, at least in that impulsive, overwhelming and _suffocating_ way that I'm sure all teenage girls experience at some point in their short lives. In Massachusetts, I'd thought what I felt for my ex had been _love_, but what I felt for Chris blew _him_ out of the water, whether it was really _love_ or just a very intense crush. It was ironic especially considering Logan and I had actually dated. We had the _title. _We'd held hands, shared sweet and fleeting kisses under snow covered trees.

And Chris... I didn't even know what he looked like.

I was tempted to ask him for a picture, but I felt too nervous to do so. He hadn't asked for mine, so asking felt out of place. I really didn't want to give him the impression that I was shallow enough to care about looks, but I desperately wanted a face to go with my affection.

And the fantasies I was beginning to have.

I had his commission finished by Wednesday night – I even bailed on "New Comic Day" to the chagrin of the trio so I could finish it. He'd asked for only concept art, but I surprised him with more: four colored concept pieces from various angles and a painting of his OC standing – albeit somewhat melodramatically – on the edge of a tall building, cape billowing in the wind.

He'd been awestruck when I sent them to him over AIM. He wouldn't stop gushing, and I don't think I'd ever felt so proud of my own work. He made me give him my address so he could send me a money order, and then asked if he could give me a bit of an unconventional tip.

Apparently Chris was just as disappointed by our inability to talk when I was anywhere but home and he wanted to fix that. He had it in his head to send me a prepaid phone, and when I worried that I wouldn't be able to afford to keep it going, he insisted he'd cover it.

The offer completely blew me out of the water, and I wasn't exactly sure what to think. I mean, I wanted it – desperately, oh, I wanted it. I could sneak conversations with him at school, then; I could talk to him on those long walks home. But my aunt had always warned me about accepting expensive gifts from people: _"You don't want to owe anybody anything. It's better if you just take care of yourself."_

What Cherry said made sense, of course, and I felt a bit awkward accepting. I fought him on it for awhile, but only half-heartedly. Even as we argued I was entertaining thoughts of one day being able to call him.

So of course he won me over. He told me he'd overnight me the phone and that I should have it on Friday at the latest.

Sure enough, after school on Friday I had my two hundred dollar money order _and _my own phone. I'd expected something chintzy, like the prepaid phone my aunt had. I think it had cost her nine bucks and all it could manage was phone calls and texts. But Chris had sent me some kind of crazy smart-phone – I hadn't even known you could get prepaid phone in a "smart" option. The thing had a touch screen and a slide-out keyboard, and he'd already activated it for me: unlimited texts and web browsing with 300 minutes of talk time.

It took him a good thirty minutes of tech support on AIM before I even felt comfortable using the thing. He teased me about my technological ignorance, but eventually I figured out how to log onto AIM so we could continue to chat through it. He even gave me his phone number. Staring at his number in my new phone, I was struck with a sudden urge to call him. I wondered what his voice sounded like – smooth and deep, warm and endearing, cool and classy... it didn't matter. It could have been anything, and I would have been thrilled. I wanted to hear him talk. I wanted to hear him say my name.

I couldn't work up the courage to, though. I couldn't even ask him to call me, despite being fairly sure he would if I asked.

We went to bed around twelve – and by that I mean we got off our computers and laid in bed, using our phones to continue to talk to each other. It probably didn't mean anything to him, but it was an experience for me, settling back into my mountain of pillows and hand made quilts. My room got so cold at night; it was nice to be able to indulge my desire to talk to him without feeling like my jaw was going to chatter itself off my face.

I fell asleep with my phone in my hand around four or five that morning. Clumsy as I was with the phone, the practice had done me good, and while I was still nowhere near as fast as him, I felt like I was making headway.

Saturday was the day that shook my fondness for New York.

Saturday I woke up to an AIM message from Marty asking me if I wanted to go hang with the trio at Todd's house. They wanted to play some board game called Arkham Horror, which Marty informed me had nothing to do with Batman and everything to do with Cthulhu. I considered telling him no; I wanted to talk to Chris. But Chris wasn't around – still sleeping or gone somewhere, I didn't know – so I surrendered to Marty's pleading and left a message on Chris' AIM that I was going to go hang out with the Nerd Trio.

Todd lived a ways away, and as I didn't have money for the bus, it was an hour and a half walk. The weather was nice though, the sun bright in the late morning sky, the air cool but not cold. I kept fingering my phone in the pocket of my jeans, trying to imagine what it would be like to make this trek with Chris, how it'd feel to have his hand around mine.

The apartment building Todd lived in was infinitely nicer than mine, but I wasn't really surprised; most peoples' were. I found my way up to his flat easy enough to discover the three of them already cooking hotdogs and popcorn, talking excitedly about what movies they were going to watch while we played.

Having never actually _played_ an adventure board game before, I had no idea what to expect, but they can apparently last for hours. Ours lasted around six, and we made it through A Clockwork Orange _and_ From Dusk till Dawn before we were done – not to mention the case of Mountain Dew and all the candy we burned through.

It would have been a lie to say I didn't enjoy myself, but I couldn't help but feel a bit uneasy. Chris still hadn't gotten back to me, and I wondered if I hadn't somehow upset him. I'd began to pick up the idea that Chris really didn't much care for how often I kept the Nerd Trio's company.

When I first realized it, I couldn't help but feel a bit defensive. Logan had been a bit selfish that way, and I'd never appreciated it, the way he tried to dictate who I could or couldn't see. And we had been _dating_ at the time. Chris and I were arguably closer than Logan and I had ever been, of course, but the fact remained that we _weren't_ dating. Even if I _wished_ we were.

But Chris never outright scolded me for it like Logan did, never once tried to tell me not to see them. It was more the subtle nuances of how he'd speak to me, those little things he'd say that made him seem disappointed or unhappy or _jealous_. And when I thought about it more, when I put myself in _his_ shoes, I wasn't sure I could blame him.

Imagining Chris telling me he was going to hang out with a trio of nerdy girls made my heart feel like it would explode – even though it was a hypothetical it made me really queasy.

So when Marty asked me if I wanted to go back with him to his house to play Super Smash Brothers, I declined. Lying, I told him I needed to get back to my aunt because I hadn't seen her in awhile and we were supposed to have dinner together. And I texted – not AIM'd – Chris to tell him I was going to be home soon, and how much I was looking forward to talking to him.

Marty insisted on walking me home, and while I refused the full course, I took him up on a halfway escort because the darkening sky made me nervous. It was a generous offer considering we lived a fair distance from each other, but he assured me he'd take the bus home and that he liked spending the time with me.

While the walk there had been enjoyable, having a friend made it so much more exciting. We chased each other down the streets, weaving in and out of frowning passers-by, our laughter loud and carefree. I felt like a little kid again, playing hide and go seek behind light poles where we could easily see each other.

The air grew considerably colder as the night blanketed the city in darkness, and Marty insisted we stop at a little street cart so he could get coffee. I didn't have any cash on me, and told him I didn't need anything, but he got me hot chocolate anyways. "I noticed you didn't get coffee at the coffee joint, so I figured this was a safe bet."It was. I hated the bitter taste of coffee, but hot chocolate was always a welcome friend. And while his charity brought a flush of embarrassment to my cheeks, I savored the heat it brought to my numbing hands.

Marty and I slowed our pace to a more leisurely stroll then, arm in arm, the heat from our drinks chasing the cold from our bodies. It was strange watching how quickly people pushed themselves through the streets, disinterested in the way the lights played off the windows of the cars, oblivious to the warm smells of food snaking their way from the open doors of restaurants.

We talked about everything and nothing, and I couldn't help the smile on my face. Forty-five minutes passed in a contented blur, and when it came time for us to part ways I seriously considered asking him to continue on with me. It was only the fear that he'd ask to come up that stilled me; he'd know I was lying about my aunt being home, and I didn't want to risk our friendship over another forty-five minutes of comfort.

We'd made good time, though, so I didn't expect it would take thefull forty-five minutes. We tossed our empty cups into a trash can, and he hugged me before he pressed something warm and fuzzy into my hands. His gloves.

"You don't have a coat, Ky, so you gotta stay warm somehow." Before I could argue, he was gone, tracing our steps back to find a bus stop.

I slid them onto my hands; they were still hot from being on his, and it was nice to be able to trap the heat from my hot chocolate in. I hated how numb my hands felt in the cold.

Digging out my phone, I checked for messages from Chris. Nothing. I imagined he was probably doing something with his parents; he said they tended to steal him away on weekends so they could pretend to be a happy family while they all sat silent over fancy meals at overly expensive restaurants. The thought made me sad, but I selfishly hoped that was the case and not that he was mad at me.

Without Marty, the time passed so slowly. I passed the time by watching people and counting all the red cars that zipped along the roads. Red because it was Chris' favorite color.

Around twenty minutes from home, I started getting nervous. There were less people on the streets and my neighborhood wasn't the greatest. The sky was a rich velvet black now, the light from the skyline choking out the stars, and while the street lamps kept the darkness at bay, the alleyways shrouded themselves in shadows. I made a point to give them a wide berth when I crossed them.

I told myself it was a childish fear; that my aunt over-exaggerated, that there was nothing to worry about. Still, I pulled my phone from my pocket and slid it into the side of my old thrifted sweater boot. For the first time I was glad they were too big on me. I doubted a mugger would think to check _there _for a phone or money.

I was only ten minutes from home when it happened.

Passing one of those alleyways, I heard the cries of a cat that sounded like it was in pain. I knew it well enough; Tribbles had gotten his tail caught in the door once, and those yowls were unmistakeable. I paused at the entrance to the alleyway, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I couldn't see anything; the light from the street didn't stretch that far.

The cat cried out again, and I set my jaw against my own fear. I'd just go in and see if it was okay, possibly drag it home and see if there was anything I could do. In and out in a few seconds, if that. Nothing would happen. I mean, there were people on the street walking by. What _could_ happen?

The darkness slipped around me like Marty's gloves around my fingers, and I realized there was no way I'd be able to see this cat without light. I pulled the phone from my boot, pressing a button to get it to wake up so its pale blue screen would light up the alleyway.

There was a big dumpster that looked like it hadn't been emptied in ages, and I wondered idly how one could even empty the thing given how tight the alley was. The smell of it was atrocious; I pulled my shirt up over my nose so I could breathe without gagging.

I swung my phone slowly back and forth until it caught the glimmer of a pair of green feline eyes. When I made my way towards it though, the cat hissed, darting up and over a fence at the end of the alley. Cursing my stupidity I turned around and walked head long into something tall. And _warm._

"Where you goin' girly?" It was a man's voice, and it made my blood run cold.

Suddenly there was a hand pressed against my mouth, and he was pushing me back away from the street, further into the darkness. He snatched my phone from my hand, tossing it behind the dumpster. I watched with panic as the light soared through the air before disappearing behind the metal monstrosity. The sound of the plastic hitting the ground made me want to cry.

I made to bolt, but his hand caught my wrist, twisting it painfully behind my back as he pulled me against him, my back to his chest. I would have screamed – tried to scream – but his hand on my mouth muffled it out, suffocating me. The skin of his hand was damp with sweat, calloused and rough, and it tasted sour against my lips.

I felt a wave of nausea crash through my body, mixing with my mounting panic. He hadn't taken my phone. He wasn't after money.

The man dragged me behind the dumpster, his hand continuing to twist my arm. I was shrieking helplessly against his hand, terrified my arm was going to break. Tears were burning in my eyes, my lungs aching for air. His hand was so much bigger than my face, and I suddenly realized that pain in my chest was as much from fear as it was from being unable to breathe.

His mouth was at my ear, his voice hoarse and heavy with threat. "If you fucking scream, girly, I'm gonna fucking kill you. Best if you just shut the fuck up and take it."

I felt his fingers digging into my cheeks, the bones in my face feeling like they were going to break under his tightening hand. I tried to nod my understanding, still struggling against him, instinct outweighing self-preservation. I needed to _breathe_. I felt as if I was going to shatter into a million pieces. I found myself hoping I would – anything would be better than this.

The man pushed me down hard, my knees biting into the rough concrete through the thin denim of my jeans. I had to catch myself with my hands to keep my face from meeting the pavement, and I could feel the concrete tearing into my palms, ripping Marty's gloves.

From behind me, I heard the sound of something sharp cutting the air. I had to press my hand into my own mouth to smother myself, to keep back those screaming sobs from escaping my lips.

Something hit the back of my head then, sending me sprawling across the ground. I cracked my forehead against the side of a building, red mixing with the tears in my eyes. Blood.

I felt his foot against the small of my back, his fingers digging into my hair so he could pull my head back. He was waving something around in my face, but my vision was blurry with red tears. I had to blink them away, shake my head to clear it. What was it? In the poor light, I could see something glimmering.

A switchblade.

"I told you to fucking shut up. You better try fucking harder to be quiet, bitch!" He was hissing at me, his voice so low I could barely hear him.

Using my hair as a handle, he rolled me over onto my back, kneeling over me so that he could press the tip of the switchblade between my breasts. I thought for sure he was going to kill me – felt myself tensing as I braced myself for the impact of that blade slipping through my flesh. But he used it to catch the fabric of my shirt instead, and it was with a sickening feeling of dread that I realized he was cutting my shirt away.

With my shirt halfway split, he took a fistful of the fabric and ripped it away from my body. I felt my cheeks burning, and I tried to cover myself with my arms, shaking my head, my mind racing. I wanted to scream. I wanted to scream, but all he had to do was slide that blade across my throat. All he had to do was slam his foot down on my face, and I'd be dead. _Dead_.

I'd never been religious, but I was pleading to God, begging him. I wanted to close my eyes, but I was too frightened – I could only stare up at him with wet eyes, those shadowy features of his face blurred and indistinct. No, it would be better if he killed me. It couldn't be this way. It _couldn't_. _Please, God. Just let him kill me._

"Just kill me," I heard myself hiss at him through clenched teeth, tears burning my cheeks. "Just fucking _kill_ me!"

He made to hit me then, drawing his hand back, the blade gripped in his massive fist. But his gaze drew away from me then, his eyes going wide at something approaching.

"The fuck..."

Jerking to his feet, I saw him make a gesture like he was brandishing the knife before him, but it was so hard to see. I covered my face with my hands, then, the sobs that had been building up in my chest bubbling out of me uncontrollably.

"Dude, what the fuck? Jesus, what the fuck are you _doing_ to her?"

It was a different voice, another man, deep and full of dark surprise. I heard the sound of a gun being cocked, and I rolled over on my side, pressing my forehead against my knees. Jesus, I was going to die. I was going to _die._

"I don't want trouble, man, fucking hell, I don't want trouble. Fucking please, I don't want fucking trouble." It was my assailant. His voice had begun to mimic my own hysteria; he sounded like a frightened child.

_Fuck him._

"Don't want fucking trouble, but what the _fuck_ did you do to her?" It was the other voice, shaking with undisguised rage. "You fucking goddamn cunt, I'm going to fucking _kill_ you."

I felt the man above me shift, like he was going to move – but there was the sound of something, like muffled popping, and then something metal clattering against the road.

The man above me toppled to the ground barely a second after. I felt him land beside me, his arm falling across my body as he did.

I didn't make a sound. I didn't fucking move. I kept my fingers pressed against my mouth, my hand against the ear that faced the sky, shaking, trembling, willing back the sobs and the vomit that burned in the back of my throat.

Someone was kneeling over me. I could see the shadow of him against the sky somehow, a struggle through the blood and the tears in my eyes.

"Hey. Hey, you're going to be okay, all right? Hey..."

He was doing something, taking something off from around his shoulders. For one brief moment, I panicked. Was he going to finish what the other guy had tried to start? But he bent down, sliding his arm beneath my shoulder with a gentleness that mimicked the touch my mother had used to console me when I was a child. And suddenly he was wrapping me in something thick and long, holding me against him, supporting me.

The fabric was soft and billowing in the light wind that drifted through the alleyway. He was folding it over my shoulders, hiding my nakedness behind it. What was it?

With the corner of it, he dabbed at my eyes, wiping away some of that blood.

"That asshole did a goddamn number on your head, kid. Jesus fucking Christ..."

Looking up at him, I could barely make him out. The alley was so dark, his feature so indistinct. I moved my hand to touch his face, my fingers meeting cloth.

A mask.

Suddenly it clicked. The thing around me – a cape. A mask. From the TV.

"You," I managed to say, just barely, my voice cracking. "You. I know you."

There wasn't much light, but I could tell there was no green or yellow. Red. Red Mist.

"Yeah," he started, rising slowly to his feet, pulling me with him. His voice was shushed, smooth, soothing. "Yeah, yeah, don't worry about it."

If it hadn't been for his arm, I would have fallen. I felt dizzy; my head throbbed where I'd cut it on the building, right above my eyebrow. I could feel my curls sticking to my face, wet and warm, could taste my own blood on my lips. But it didn't matter. I was alive. I was _alive_.

"C'mon, we gotta get you outta here." He pulled my arm around his shoulder to even up the balance, but I felt myself shaking my head. No. Not yet.

"I can't," I began, my words unsure even to my own ears. "My phone. I need my phone. I just got it – a gift from someone. Important. I cant lose it. You have to get it." I sounded so mechanical. It was an effort just to talk when all I wanted to do was cry. Cry and go to sleep.

Red Mist nodded; I could feel it rather than see it, his cheek next to mine, the fabric of his mask growing wet with my blood. "Where did it go?"

"The dumpster," I managed. "Behind it, I think..."

He walked me over to the wall and arranged me so that my back was to it, propping me up. "Be still, okay? Try not to fall." I heard his footsteps leave me as he went to look for it, and I wrapped my arms around myself beneath the warmth of his cape. Luck. Pure fucking luck.

Suddenly I wanted very badly to talk to Chris. I needed him so badly, and I hated him for being so far away. I couldn't tell anyone about this. Not my aunt; she'd never let me do anything again. Not Marty; I knew the guilt would tear him apart. He'd feel terrible for not walking me all the way home. But Chris...

Red Mist's hand was around mine then, pulling my fingers apart. I was surprised to find my hands were clenched, surprised by how sore my muscles were. He slid the phone against my palm, and the plastic of it felt cold through the gaping tear in Marty's glove.

"Does it..." I began, the words dying in my throat.

"It works," he assured me. "I checked. You got a message from someone named Chris. Says he hopes you make it home soon."

I fell into him then, wrapping my arms around him, the cape coming undone from my shoulders. I didn't care that I didn't have a shirt on. I didn't care about anything. I was alive. My phone still worked. Chris wanted to talk to me. My mind was a giant bloody mess, but it was okay. I was _okay._

I buried my bloody face against his chest and let the sobs rip through my body, let them shake my form. He let me cry, his arms encircling my shoulders, his gloved hands tangling in my hair.

"Hey, you're all right. It's over." His voice floated in my head, somewhere near my ear. Soft, barely a whisper. "I got you. You're all right." It _was_ over – but his sympathy brought out more tears.

I'm not sure how long we stood there, my fingers clawing at the fabric across his back. I cried until I felt the tension bleeding from me, until my limbs felt rubbery and weak, until I felt a sort of awkward relaxation settling itself around me like a well-loved, if scratchy, blanket.

"Do you want me to take you home?"

I could only nod my head against him, so thankful that he didn't care that I was bleeding all over him. There was no way I was going to make it home alone. There was no way I was ever leaving my goddamn house again.

Picking up the cape from the ground at our feet, he was careful to keep a hand on me so that I wouldn't topple over. He fixed it back around me, making it into a sort of make-shift cloak so that it hid not only my upper body but my face. "People are gonna stare at you on the street," he warned me, his voice careful. "Don't look at them. Don't say anything. You should be fine."

Then he leaned down some so he could wrap his arm around my waist, and I curled mine around his shoulders. I expected him to walk me out of the alleyway, but he bent down further, catching the back of my knees with his other arm, lifting me up, carrying me.

"Sorry," I mumbled, leaning my head against his. "For bleeding all over you."

"Hey." Red Mist was chuckling, I could feel it in the way his body shook, though he didn't make a sound. "You're cool."

Behind us, I saw the unmoving shadow of my attacker on the ground. Had Red Mist killed him? Closing my eyes against the sight, I couldn't bring myself to ask.

I couldn't bring myself to care if he had.


	7. A Lucky Guy

**AN: **Chris gets to be a little sweet on top of being a little creepy in this one. Hurr.

* * *

><p>"<em>I just wanna break you down so badly<br>In the worst way._

_I'm gonna make damn sure that you can't ever leave -_  
><em>No, you won't ever get too far from me."<em>

- Taking Back Sunday "MakeDamnSure".

_**Genovese**_

That fucking asshole. That fucking asshole had taken my goddamn plans and proceeded to _throw them out the_ _fucking window_.

Okay, that wasn't fair. He'd followed them, but he'd improvised. Improvised in _all the wrong ways_.

He was fucking _dead_, though, so it didn't matter. All that mattered was how terrified Kylie looked, her face covered with blood, her hair matting in it. All that mattered was how she clung to me, shaking and crying, hysterical and unsteady on her feet.

It was the first time I'd killed a man. I didn't feel anything – anything beyond the rage he'd put in me by fucking up, pure fucking fury that he'd actually fucking _hurt_ her. Why the fuck couldn't he have been a good dog and just _listened _I couldn't understand, and I really didn't fucking care. I killed him. I fucking _killed_ him.

My old man had said the first time he killed a man had shaken him some. Not a lot, of course. But some. I mean you grow up in the family and you get used to that kind of shit. It's just part of the job.

Any other night I think I would have reveled in the fact that it _didn't_ shake me up. That I didn't flinch when I pulled the trigger. It just seemed natural. Cross me, and you fucking _die. _But I couldn't really appreciate it. All I could see was her on the ground, bleeding everywhere, those stick-skinny arms up and over her face.

It must have been a night for firsts though. I think it was the first time I'd ever felt anything like guilt.

I knew what guilt was. Knew it, at least, in that I knew the definition of it – the idea that someone could regret something they'd done, enough that they felt bad about it. I can't say I'd ever really felt it to any grand degree. Maybe regret, but not _guilt_. My father had taught me from an early age that guilt was a weakness. You did what you did and didn't question yourself. Guilt made pussies out of men. Guilt made men hesitate.

You couldn't do what my old man did if you were a pussy. Who the fuck would respect you? And hesitation could mean death.

And yet as she pressed herself against me, I couldn't help but feel it. Regret. _Guilt. _What would have happened if Jon had actually raped her? It would have been _my _fuckingfault.

I tried to chase those thoughts away. So what if I'd sent him after her? I just told him to scare her. I never expected him to try and fucking _rape_ her. He should have known better. The thought of another man touching her filled me with an unspeakable kind of hate. I never meant for him to do that. It was him, _him_. It wasn't _my fucking fault_.

But I could only make myself half-believe it.

Knowing that I'd been the one who told him to find her made that hard, though. Made it hard to absolve myself from my part in it.

Jon hadn't done it, though. I _had_ stopped it. I'd saved her. And I used it to justify myself, to justify what I'd done to her, justify the nightmares I was sure she was going to have. I'd saved her, so it was going to be okay.

And it _was_ so nice to hold her. She felt so cold and fragile in my arms, like a little doll, like a fucking little trembling _bird_, all delicate limbs and soft skin_._ I could smell her even over the blood, the scent of her shampoo, that fucking perfume. Flowers and spring, sharp in the chill autumn air.

I savored the desperation with which she clung to me. I loved the way she held onto my waist, her tiny little fingers digging into my side like she fucking _needed_ me, like I was the only thing keeping her from falling apart at the seams.

I _tried_ to be gentle. I tried to say the right things even though I had no fucking clue what I was dong. I'd never had to comfort anyone before, but I tried – and it seemed to work. I could actually feel it in my arms, feel her still, finally: that racing of her heart pounding against my stomach and how it seemed to slow; those heaving sobs that faded into the cutest fucking hiccups.

Initially I'd hoped for a crowd – it had been part of the plan. Red Mist fucking saves the girl from being mugged. The bigger the crowd for that, the better, the more likely we'd make it onto the news. I'd be one step closer to meeting Kick Ass, and those fucking douchebags giving my old man hell.

But the mugging had become almost-rape, and I knew she didn't want anyone seeing her in the state she was. I certainly didn't want anyone fucking seeing her. That pain and sorrow and fear of hers was fucking _mine_. I hid her in my cape – thankful that I'd pushed for it when my old man had said it was stupid – and carried her back to my car, ignoring the people around me. They'd find the body. They'd figure it out.

My car. My old man had gotten me this fucking sweet car – I'd named it the Mist Mobile and it was the fucking _shit._ I'd been excited about the idea of driving her home in it, but considering everything that had happened, my excitement was sobered by fucking reality.

I pushed through the crowd that surrounded it, casting dirty looks as they parted. There was some skinny little douchebag with his face pressed against the passenger window that didn't notice I was there until I stood behind him, shifting her slightly in my arms.

"Hey, kid. Open the door and get the fuck out of my way."

The shithead visibly jumped, turning to look at me with wide eyes. "Oh. Yeah. Okay." He was stumbling over his words, but he opened the door and scuttled away with his mouth hanging open like I was fucking Santa Claus or some shit.

I settled her into the seat, making sure to buckle her in. God knows I didn't want her going through the fucking window if I had to stop suddenly.

Kylie caught my eyes and gave me a weak smile. Her head was still bleeding, but the blood on her lips was drying in the little lines there. Without thinking, I pulled off my glove and licked my thumb so I could try and rub the blood away. Vainly.

I felt her fingers on the back of my hand, trembling and unsure, saw her watching me through those fucking long eyelashes of her. When she mouthed the words 'thank 'you', I could feel her smile against my thumb.

Awkwardly I pulled away from her, making a point to shut her door quietly. Dazed, I could barely see that crowd as I made my way around my car. I could hear them talking; some of them were even trying to speak to me directly. They might as well have been on the fucking moon for all the attention I could spare them.

I let myself fall into the driver's seat, closing my own door with considerably less care. I was thankful that my father had seen to it that the windows were tinted as dark as they were; it made it impossible to see in from the outside.

"You okay?" I asked, letting my eyes sweep over her. She'd pulled the cape down from her face, holding it around her like a blanket. Her bare fingers prodded at the wound on her forehead gingerly, the gloves she'd been wearing crumpled in her lap. Without looking at me, she nodded.

"I could be better," she mumbled, but there was no hostility in her voice. She caught me with a sideways glance, trying at a small smile again. Trying to assure me – as if it was _her _job to make _me _feel better_._ "But I could be a lot worse... if you hadn't been there..."

"Don't think about it, okay? It's over now. I'm not gonna let anyone fucking _touch_ you." I had to bite back the temptation to say her name. _I wasn't supposed to know it_. Instead, I put the key in the ignition and turned, listening to it roar to life.

The sound seemed to jolt her out of her haze and her eyes darted from me to sweep around the cab of the car. I couldn't help but smirk at the look of surprise surfacing across her features. "I, uh... wasn't aware you had a car." She blinked at me. "I would think the news would have a heyday with it, too."

"Yeah, it's new," I answered, managing to keep that amusement from my voice. Practiced nonchalance. I was so fucking good. Throwing the car into drive, I laid into the gas, roaring away from the side of the street and into traffic. "You should see it from the outside," I continued, conversationally, an attempt at distracting her. "It's pretty goddamn boss."

"I... I'm probably gonna get blood all over it." She sounded alarmed – it was so fucking cute. Almost raped and she was worried about bleeding all over her hero's car.

I couldn't help but laugh then. "Jesus, you're fine. It's really okay. I mean, shit like this is bound to happen, right? Your just popping my car's cherry."

Right as I said it, I realized how fucking insensitive it sounded, and I wanted to punch myself in my own goddamn face. "Shit. Sorry. That's a fucking terrible thing to say."

I tried to look at her out of the corner of my eye, stealthy as shit, to survey the damage. But she was only looking at me with this quirky kind of smile on her face, shaking her head. "I'm impressed enough that you caught it, really. Better than most guys."

She patted my arm and let her gaze drift away from me to her window. The touch of her hand made me feel dizzy.

I almost made the mistake of just driving her home. I knew where she lived; had known for at least two weeks now, and after staring at it on maps I was fairly certain I could make it there without any issues. It was only right when I was about to turn around and start heading in the right direction that I managed to stop myself. That was something I wasn't supposed to know, either.

If my head had been more clear, I wouldn't have been making those mistakes. But something about being in the car with her, that scent of her fucking _everywhere_, remembering her body pressed against mine – it made my brain all kinds of fucked up. It was like being high. High on the _best_ kind of fucking drugs.

"Where do you live?" I had to try and make my voice sound normal, try to keep that wry grin from my lips.

She gave me her address, pointing against the glass of her window immediately afterward. "Turn left here. We're pretty close." _But I already know, Kylie._

While I could have put her address into the GPS I had sitting on my dashboard, I let her tell me where to go. I liked listening to her speak. She had a nice voice, high and light, but small – smaller than normal, even, as she was still clearly shaken.

It took all of three minutes to make it back, and we didn't say much on the drive over. It was difficult not to stare at her, but I didn't want to unnerve her, and she didn't seem that interested in talking to me. It might have pissed me off if her face wasn't still so bloody, a sharp reminder of what had just almost happened.

Outside of her apartment, I pulled up along the road, turning the car off. We sat in silence for what felt like minutes, the back of her head to me as she peered up at the building. Her shoulders were tense; I could see it even beneath the heavy cloth of my cape.

"My aunt's not home."

"Who?" I made a point of sounding unsure.

"I live with her," she explained, turning to look at me. Her face was white beneath the blood and her freckles, stark when contrasted against red of her hair. Fear was apparent on her face, darkening her features with worry. "She works late. She won't be home until two."

It dawned on me that she wanted me to go up with her. I could tell by the way she held her hands against her stomach, by the way they seemed to tremble.

"Do you want me to come with you?" The dutiful hero, always.

"Please," she said, her eyes wide, her voice faltering to a whisper. "Don't leave me."

I got out of the car first and made my way to her side to help her out. It was the first time I'd been by her apartment, and looking up at the building while I lent her my arm, I could understand _why_ she was afraid. The place was as much a shithole as I had expected, if not more so.

There were real trashy looking people milling about, people who paused to stare at the two of us. I made a point of locking my car. It wasn't like it couldn't be replaced, but I hadn't really had time to play with it. I sure as fuck didn't want it stolen by some fucking junkie.

Any other time, without Marco near by, those people and those ignorant stares might have made me uneasy. But I had my beretta on my hip, and I'd just fucking killed a man. I'd fucking saved the girl. I felt invincible – no one was gonna stop _me._

Kylie seemed like she was going to try and walk, but I caught her in my arms, lifting her off the ground again. She felt like nothing – like fucking air. I held her against me defensively, my lips near her cheek. "Pull the cape over your face unless you wanna have a lot of people bothering you about it next time they see you."

She did as she was told without question and tucked her face against my shoulder. I could feel her hair tickling my cheek, just under my nose. It took some kind of fucking restraint not to bury my face in her curls. "Third floor, apartment 342b." Her lips were against the side of my neck while she spoke, just under my jaw. I felt my pulse quicken in response – felt my body fill with fire.

I took the stairs because I didn't want to wait for the elevator in the lobby. It was thankfully less crowded inside, and by the time we made it to the third floor, the place seemed deserted.

The place reeked of smoke, the carpet in the hallways stained with god knows what – shit, piss, vomit, it wouldn't have surprised me. There were huge cracks running up parts of the walls, and I could see mildew growing in some of the corners. I couldn't help but feel a little bad for her. Living the life of a goddamn prince, I really couldn't imagine living in such squalor.

342b was at the end of the hallway. There was a little wreath on the door – it had probably been a Christmas wreath at some point, but it had been painted orange and black, decorated with pumpkins and bats made out of construction paper. They all had those little googly-eyes you can get at craft stores, with these big dopey smiles drawn on in some kind of sparkly marker.

"Did you make the wreath?" I couldn't keep the laughter from my voice.

She lifted her head from my shoulder to blink at the door as if she were seeing it for the first time. "Yeah," she answered, her voice tired. She slide her fingers into her pocket and pulled out a single key. "When I was six or something. Guess my aunt put it up before she went back to work."

"It's actually pretty fucking cute," I assured her as I let her down gently, keeping my arm around her waist to hold her steady.

She handed me the key with a smile. "Thanks." She leaned into me while I unlocked the door. "That's kind of you to say."

It was like another world from the shitfest that was the hallway.

The carpet still had stains, but it looked like someone had tried extra hard to get them out, really put some elbow grease into it. You could only see them if you were looking – and coming from the hallway, I was looking. The furniture looked pretty worn, but the chairs and the couch had these brightly colored blankets thrown over them that breathed life into the place.

It was kept clean and neat, but there were these little knick-knacks and things everywhere, magazines and books kept in stacks. It was messy, but in that controlled clutter kind of way that made the place seem homey and lived in. Like a little grandmother's house you'd see on TV, it was entirely foreign to me. The penthouse had been put together by professional interior designers, and the sterile minimalism and wide open space they'd employed was the polar opposite of Kylie's cramped apartment.

The walls of the place were covered in what could have been dozens of pictures: paintings, drawings photographs in old frames. I figured everything but the photographs to be her work; I'd been shopping for paintings with my old man before. Art was never fucking cheap.

And then there was the smell.

I don't know how else to explain it but that it smelled like a place women lived. Like baked goods, cinnamon and vanilla, spices and warmth. Like fucking flowers, potpourri and fresh, clean air.

"Jesus," I murmured, supporting her as she lead me into the room. "Smells like a goddamn magic bakery in here."

She laughed for the first time that night, taking the key from me and setting it on a table by the door. The table was covered with envelopes and tiny little sculptures of animals that looked like they'd been made from that Crayola model clay stuff.

"Did you make those too?" I picked up one that looked like a pig. It smiled back at me with big cartoon eyes. It was clear whoever had made it had put a lot of effort and detail work into it, something I wasn't even aware you could do with Crayola shit.

"Yeah, but not when I was six. More like, thirteen," she admitted, patting the pig on the head with her finger. "That's Porkenstein. He's my favorite."

"Looks a bit too friendly to be German."

"Looks can be deceptive! I mean, he isn't a Nazi or anything, but he can be serious when he needs to be." She plucked him from my fingers and set him back on the table. I tried to give her an exaggeratedly skeptical look, but I wasn't sure it came across as such from under my mask.

Her head had finally stopped bleeding, but she looked like a goddamn mess. Frowning, I brushed my fingers across her cheek. She flinched from the touch, but didn't pull away – I had my arm around her after all. "You should really get cleaned up. Maybe I should have taken you to a hospital."

"'tis only a flesh wound," she quipped, pumping her fist in front of her chest. She was trying so hard to be upbeat, but I could see the reserve in her eyes faltering. "But you're probably right. Can you help me get to the bathroom, maybe? It's right across the room, only one in the place."

I didn't answer her but picked her up again. I was having too much fun with her unsteady legs; they gave me the perfect excuse to carry her, and I liked the feel of her body against mine a little too much.

"You're such a gentleman," she laughed quietly against the side of my head, and I felt her lips brush my cheek, just across the stubble I'd been too lazy to shave that morning.

Almost stumbling, I made out like I was taking particularly long strides. I was tempted to tell her not to do that, if only because I wasn't sure how well I could control myself if she did it again – but the electricity that danced its way up my spine managed to convince me to keep my mouth shut.

The bathroom was small, without much space to maneuver, but I set her on the toilet and looked down at her expectantly. "Got anything around to clean up your head with?" My voice sounded strained even to my own ears. I could think of little else besides that pink little mouth of hers.

"Under the sink, there's some uh... hydrogen peroxide I think."

I opened the cabinet and pulled out the familiar brown bottle and a bag of cotton balls. She held out her hands as if to take them from me, but I set them on the counter instead. Wetting a cotton ball with some of the peroxide, I took her chin in one hand and grinned down at her. "Be a good little girl and try not to squeal too much."

She made a face at me, something between a frown and a grin that made her look impish, made her nose crinkle. God. _So fucking_ _adorable_. "It's peroxide, silly. It doesn't _burn_! It just bubbles!"

"Yeah, but it's _cold_," I warned her and tilted her chin back, using my pinky to brush her bloodied bangs away from the wound. Pressing the cotton against it, I felt her flinch against my hand, a squeak of surprise escaping her lips. "Ah-ah, what was _that_, Miss I-Can-Handle-It?"

She swatted at me playfully, poking her tongue out in indignation. "It was _cold_," she teased back, her voice stubborn.

"Told you." I grinned down at her smugly, victorious.

I went through a few cotton balls cleaning up the gash on her forehead, and then I took some more to her hands and the little cuts that crisscrossed her palms. After a few minutes, I stepped back to view my handiwork, unable to keep the frown from my face.

"You're still covered in blood."

"Hydrogen peroxide's magic isn't all powerful, you know, and cotton balls can only do so much," she chided, leaning back against the toilet. "I doubt it'd work unless you bathed me in it, and then I'd smell all gross." She crinkled her nose while I tried to chase the thoughts of myself bathing her out of my head. I doubted that my costume was all that great at hiding erections.

"I _should_ probably try and take a shower." She looked around the room for a moment and then back at me with slightly widening eyes. "Would you... would you stay until I'm done?"

I shrugged, then nodded. I tried to pretend I was apathetic, but in actuality it thrilled me that she'd asked.

"Good," she clapped her hands together and then immediately winced.

"Might wanna be careful doing that, kid. Your hands are all jacked up."

"Kylie," she said suddenly, staring up at me intently. "My name's Kylie."

"Kylie." It was with relish that I spoke her name aloud, and I felt a smile forming around the word. "Nice to meet you, Kylie. I 'm... well. You know."

She looked disappointed. "No real name?"

I touched my finger to my lips then, not bothering to hide the grin behind it. "Never. But I think if you take a shower you're gonna want something else to change into. You want me to go get you something?"

Kylie blinked for a moment, mildly surprised – then found a grin to mirror mine. "I hadn't even thought of that. You're better at this than I am."

"I'm not the one with the head wound." I shrugged again, still smiling, though I was admittedly pretty pleased with myself.

She waved her hand at me dismissively. "No, no, I'm always like this, even without head wounds," she laughed, settling her hands on her knees. "To the right of the bathroom, there's a hallway that leads down to two rooms. Mine's on the right. There's a bunch of uh... boxes with clothes in them. But the one by the foot of the bed should have a shirt and a pair of plaid shorts on it. Those are my pajamas. If you could bring them to me, I'd be much obliged, sir." She said the last bit with a little flourish of her hand and a bow of her head.

I wandered out into the hallway and found my way to her room. The door was open, covered in little doodles of comic book characters that had been scotch taped on in a haphazard manner. I stood for a moment, trying to see if I could recognize them all. Unsurprisingly, I could.

Her room was so fucking tiny – at least a sixth the size of mine. All she had was a bed, a heater, a desk with a computer, and her bed. Her clothes were all kept in milk crates, and I stood for a moment, fascinated by how different our lives were.

Sure enough, I found her shirt and plaid shorts where she'd said they'd be. It was a little spaghetti strap thing, pink in color – the plaid shorts matched, pink and purple and white. Casting a glance behind me to make sure she hadn't appeared in the doorway, I buried my face in her clothes. God. They smelled so good, sweet like the scarf had before I'd worn the smell out of it.

The milk crate beneath her pajamas seemed to house her underwear. They were the plainest goddamn things I'd ever seen: mostly solid colored boyshorts and white bras. Briefly I wondered why she didn't have anything more exciting, but then it occurred to me she probably couldn't afford it. The only experience with womens' crap I had was admittedly from strippers and whores, and it was their fucking job to look sexy. Kylie was just a kid, and a pretty naïve one at that; I got the impression that she wouldn't be caught dead in a Victoria's Secret. A single bra from there probably cost more than the entire goddamn milk crate's worth of shit.

I went ahead and snagged a pink pair of panties too and met her back in the bathroom.

She took the bundle from me, her cheeks flushing to match her pajamas when she saw the panties. "That was thoughtful of you," she said in a voice high with threat of embarrassed laughter.

I shook my finger at her, sternly. "You should always change that crap after a shower."

"Thanks for the tip, Batman." She had such a pretty smile. "You can go wait in the living room. I'm sure our shitty TV will blow you away."

"You gonna be okay in here?" I was a little nervous about leaving her alone, but as much as I'd have enjoyed it, I doubted she was going to let me help her take a shower.

She nodded, her curls bouncing around her shoulders. "Yeah, I'll be okay. I'll start screaming hysterically if I need you. That's how you call heroes, right? Like an alternate bat signal."

I grinned at her. "That's certainly how you can reach _me_."

Kylie fluttered her eyelashes at me playfully. "My hero. I'll be quick."

I left the bathroom and shut the door behind me. I wasn't three steps into the living room when I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket.

Pulling it out, I was only half-surprised to see a text from Kylie. _"Chris, can I call you later? I really need someone to talk to."_

Letting myself fall onto her couch, I couldn't keep from chuckling. From the bathroom, I heard the sound of the shower turn on. _"Sure thing. Is something wrong?"_

My eyes didn't leave the phone, expectant. In my mind, I imagined her on the edge of the tub, naked and still a mess from the blood, clumsily plucking at the tiny keys of the phone I'd gotten her. She had no idea. None.

"_Only everything. _:(_"_

It occurred to me that she'd been putting on a brave face as the night wore on because she was worried about dumping her problems on Red Mist. I found it ironic that she'd choose the faceless D'Amico to confide in, but then the two of _them_ had been getting rather close. I was impressed with my own ability to wear masks. Impressed with my ability to keep her in the dark.

The sound of the water changed then, the way it does when someone stands beneath it, disrupting the even flow. Sighing, I set my phone on my chest and sprawled out across the couch, my eyes finding the clock that hung above the world's smallest fucking TV. 9:47 pm.

We hadn't been together for that long – probably only thirty minutes or so, but it felt like forever, like some slow moving kind of dream. It didn't help that the whole thing was fucking surreal, like a fantasy I'd have that I never could have seen occurring in reality.

While I hadn't enjoyed playing the hero for anything besides the attention it earned me on TV and the fact that I was quickly surpassing that Kick Ass fuck, I thought I could get used to it if it meant saving Kylie all the time – like Superman was always bailing Lois Lane out of shit. Especially if it meant I'd get to keep carrying her around.

It was hard for me to come to terms with the fact that I was really in her fucking house, that she was taking a shower with only a few feet and a flimsy door between us. I never would have imagined that life would play out like it had when I'd seen her that day in the comic store. Felt like fucking lifetimes ago, even if it was only two weeks.

Suddenly I became aware that I had the world's most demanding fucking hard-on. I blamed it on my wandering thoughts – especially that goddamn shower – but it had been threatening all night: first with the anticipation, and then, once I'd managed to chase that guilt away, it had been from how fucking close she'd kept to me. The way she smelled, her face so fucking close to mine. I was amazed I'd managed to keep it away as long as I had.

Pulling myself off the couch, I made my way to her room again. The tissues on the coffee table were too easy and wouldn't do. I could do that at _home_.

I didn't bother to shut the door behind me, mainly because I wanted to listen for the water so I'd know when to bolt. In the corner of her room I found a dirty clothes hamper, half full with jeans and t-shirts and a couple of hoodies. I found myself wondering briefly why she didn't wear them; she must have had a better tolerance for cold than I did.

Picking through the clothes, careful not to disturb much, I found what I was looking for: a pair of panties.

It was such a terribly _disgusting_ thing to do, especially considering she was right down the hall, feeling safe only _because_ I was still there – but I think that's why I ached so badly to do it. I lay back on her bed and freed myself from my costume, took off my gloves and wrapped my fingers and that small bit of cloth around my cock.

I wanted to make it last. I wanted to take it slow, savor each and every fucking twitch. I wanted to let it simmer while I imagined her beneath me on her own fucking bed, wanted to imagine how she'd smell when I buried my face against her throat and pushed myself inside of her, insistent and demanding.

But time wasn't on my side and I really didn't want her to find me in her room perving on her bed, so I made it quick, careful not to spill on anything other than her panties.

After I was spent, I debated about what to do with her stained boyshorts while I lay there, the cloth damp in my hands, my heart thundering in my chest. I could put them back in the laundry basket, but I was worried she'd find them, curious about the discoloration. I could throw them away, but it seemed like a waste. So I pocketed them instead, figuring I'd decide what to do with them later. I'd never had anything remotely like a panty fetish – truthfully, I thought the people who collected shit like that were fucking stupid. But it felt like some kind of compulsion. It wasn't just fucking anyone. It was _her_.

After cleaning myself up, I made my way back to the living room. As soon as my ass hit her couch, I heard the water shut off. Bingo. Perfect timing.

A few moments later I heard the door open, followed by Kylie's footsteps creaking along the floor. Her voice found me before my eyes found her. "I hope you weren't too bored." I had to smother my laughter as she collapsed on the couch beside me, a tangle of slender limbs and damp curls. Her face was flushed from the heat of her shower. "Didn't want to watch for yourself on TV?"

I let my eyes trace her form, looking for any signs of her earlier struggle besides the gash on her forehead and the cuts on her hands. "You cleaned up nicely," I grinned, ever aware of what was in my pocket. "But nah, I didn't feel like watching TV. Not really my thing."

She sat there, tucked against the corner of the couch, watching me for a few long moments. I met her gaze, curious as to what she seemed so fascinated with.

"You aren't much older than me. For some reason I thought you'd be older. You're so..." She paused, gesturing with her hand as if searching for the word. "Tall," she said finally, settling, her expression suggesting that wasn't the word she'd wanted.

"Maybe two or three years, yeah." I laughed. I felt so at ease having taken care of that building, incessant desire. "And it doesn't help that you're short as hell."

She crossed her arms across her chest and gave me a mocking pout. "I can't help it. Everyone in my family's a midget."

It was my turn to wave my hand at her, shrugging the comment off. "It makes you cute."

She lapsed back into silence, the red in her cheeks darkening. I suspected it had little to do with the shower, then, and everything to do with my comment. Contentedly, I let my head fall back against the back of the couch, feeling my smile stretch my mask.

"Thanks," I heard her say finally, her voice soft. "Really, thank you. I don't... I don't know what I would have done if... if..."

I could hear the threat of tears in her voice, and I lifted my head to fix her with a sympathetic look. "Hey. Remember what I said? Don't think about it. You're fine."

I went to pat her knee, but she threw herself into me, her arms tight around my waist, her face buried in the crook between my arm and my chest. She was so hot from the shower, and her hair left damp spots along the cloth of my costume.

Slowly I wrapped my arms around her, pushing my glove-less fingers into the wet tangle of her curls. She was so small. So fucking perfect.

Her body was shaking with fresh sobs, her fingers digging into my flesh. I didn't care. I held her and let her cry, high off the closeness of her body and the heat of her breath against me.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she kept saying, over and over again. "But he's so far away, so fucking far away, and I don't have anything else..."

I brushed my lips against the top of her head, a whisper of a touch so she wouldn't notice, a wicked sort of grin settling across my face. She couldn't see it. It didn't matter.

"It's okay," I soothed her. "He sounds like a lucky fucking guy."


	8. The Kiss That Claims You

"_I will only complicate you.  
>Trust in me, and fall as well.<br>I will find a center in you -  
>I will chew it up and leave.<br>I will work to elevate you,  
>Just enough to bring you down."<em>

- Tool, "Sober".

_**Rosario**_

It was really difficult to process everything that had happened so far. The day felt like it had lasted decades, not hours, and I could barely make sense of anything. Red Mist kept saying something about how it was probably my head injury making me absent minded, but so much of it seemed like a dream: intangible and impossible.

Part of me wished he'd tell me it hadn't been real. Part of me wished I'd wake up the next morning and forget everything that had happened. But every time I touched my forehead, my fingers would find that nasty gash. I hadn't even had the guts to look at myself in the mirror. I just let him take care of it.

I let him take care of everything. I felt bad about it, but I felt so small and helpless, and he put me back together. When I asked him to stay with me, he did so without questioning. It was hard to imagine it had all just been luck. If he hadn't been there...

He sat with me on the couch and held me for hours, listening to me ramble about nothing in particular, ridiculously patient with my babbling. I didn't really know what I was saying. It started out having something to do with the attack, but then it'd segue into Chris – and then back to the attack again.

I cried. A lot. And when I wept he'd gather some tissues from the box on the coffee table and dab at the side of my face that wasn't pressed to his chest, making shushing noises and somehow managing to say all the right things, which was mostly nothing at all. It was good just to know he was there, listening, ever attentive. He lent me some sense of security, a feeling that I felt I had been wrongly robbed off.

Even as it was happening, I registered that it should be strange, that I should feel uncomfortable. And yet it just seemed like the natural thing to do – like there wasn't even a choice. Not that I wanted there to be. He was everything I needed and I was more than happy to take advantage of it. My luck had not ended with his intervention, and in the middle of my hysteria I wondered if he wasn't some kind of guardian angel. It was the only thing at that moment that made _sense_, which was ironic considering how childish a thought it was.

But then the entire night was hardly normal.

Eventually he shook my shoulder and told me I should probably get to bed. My limbs felt like they were strung with weights and when I tried to pull myself from him I almost fell. If he hadn't been there to catch me, I probably would have reintroduced my face to the floor.

He carried me to my bedroom and settled me down into bed, drawing the covers up to my chin because I was too exhausted to get a good grasp on the blankets. Sitting beside me, he brushed my hair from my face and traced his fingers lightly over the wound, his mouth a tight, troubled line. It reminded me of being a child – of how, when I was ill, my mother would sit at my bed and fuss over me. The gentleness of his touch made my eyes tingle with the hint of tears. I tried my best to blink them back, if only because I felt he had seen enough of them.

"Do you have a spare key?"

"A spare key?" The question confused me, and my own voice in response sounded faraway – like it belonged to someone else, another girl I didn't know.

"Yeah, so I can lock the door behind me. You don't seem like you're in a position to get up and there's no way I"m not locking the door behind me. If you have a spare key, that won't be an issue, but..."

Pain struck my head then, and I flinched, pressing my palm to my temple. He'd found me some ibuprofen earlier, but either it wasn't doing anything or it hadn't taken effect. I saw something flicker in his face – concern, maybe, but I wasn't sure. Everything seemed so out of focus, like an old movie, soft and blurry.

"Actually, yeah, I do have an extra. You can take the one on the table by the door." I tried to wave my hand around in a silly gesture, but it looked more like my wrist was dislocated in the way it flopped awkwardly around like a fish out of water. He must have noticed because he took hold of it and pressed it down against the bed with a mildly alarmed glance in my direction. Giving him a weak smile, I continued, "I have this bad habit of losing keys so I try and keep a few copies kicking around."

"A key chain might help with that." I could detect a hint of amusement in his voice, though he seemed to be trying to keep his expression serious.

I shook my head at him. "I'm pretty sure I could lose the Statue of Liberty."

"A key chain might help with that, too." He said it so bluntly I couldn't help but giggle. "But I gotta get going, Kylie. I'll catch you later."

"Really?" He startled me with his suddenness, and I reached out and curled my fingers around his wrist. The thought of him leaving made my heart thump in my chest like a trapped, frightened bird.

He looked down at his hand, then back at me. I couldn't make out his face very well because the room was so poorly lit, a small lamp on my desk offering the only light. His mask certainly didn't help. But I thought I could make out the color of his eyes: a glimmer of blue, dark and endless, ever unreadable.

"Yeah." He leaned over me then, and I felt my breath catch in my throat. "I do. And I probably will." He pulled something from the floor – his cape – and tucked it around my shoulders. "Catch you later, anyway. Until then, Ky."

I'm not really sure what I was thinking when I did it – certainly nothing coherent. There was no logic to it at all, nothing but pure instinct and a sudden desire to feel close to him. As close to him as possible.

When he went to pull away I took hold of the fabric of his costume near his throat and pulled him back into me. My fingers moved up to touch the sides of his face, the stubble of his fledgling beard painful against my wounded palms. I hardly felt it. I was barely aware.

I saw his eyes widening, surprise even from under his mask, but only for a second. My mouth found his and my eyes fluttered closed, caught up in the warmth of his lips against mine.

Suddenly he was over me, on top of me. Straddling me. His body pressed into mine, his mouth picking up where I faltered.

No one had ever kissed me the way he did that night. Logan's kisses had always been fleeting and soft, almost timid. He always acted like he was afraid of breaking me, his shyness overwhelming much of his passion. And as Logan had been my first and last boyfriend, my experience had begun and ended with him.

But Red Mist – his kiss was insistent and hard, driven as if by some sort of desperation, some kind of intense longing. He put the entirety of himself into it. I could feel the tension in him as his body rocked against me, as his tongue slid across my lips, wet and hot, demanding entrance.

It was easy to get caught up in it. His fervor was overwhelming, and for one brief moment I thought I would drown in it. My body ached to surrender to him. It was all that made sense, all that I could comprehend. Like we had both been built up for _that_ moment, like it was supposed to _be_.

But I couldn't. I didn't. Reality came crashing in, disrupting that reverie that had only seconds ago smothered any sense of sanity. I didn't know him. It shouldn't be like this.

And then I felt it – sharp and fleeting – fear. What was I doing? What was _he_ doing?

Guilt chased away the fear, though, and suddenly I could think of nothing but Chris. He _wasn't _Chris, and he wasn't going to be. I tried to turn my face from his, meeting resistance in his hands against my cheeks. _No_. Bracing my hands against Red Mist's chest, I pressed up, trying to shake my head again.

He broke the kiss with a hiss, and for one brief moment, I thought I saw raw anger in his eyes, furious and cold – threatening. And yet as quickly as it was there, it was gone, leaving my mind questioning my eyes. Had it really been there? That fear – it was probably nothing more than a stubborn, bad memory from the attack.

"I'm sorry," I murmured, shaking my head at him, his face barely two inches from mine. "I don't know what came over me, but..."

"But?" His tone was cool, but there was something else there, something I couldn't identify.

"I have feelings for someone else, and I don't even know why... I just... this night has been so confusing." It all came out in a rush, the words spilling over each other to form one terribly lame excuse. But all I could think of was Chris, and how I'd betrayed my feelings for him. It didn't matter that we weren't together; it still seemed so unfair.

There was a silence between us that stretched for longer than I'd have liked, his eyes intense as he watched me. Slowly, though, a smile surfaced across his lips. "That guy you couldn't shut up about earlier?"

I felt heat raise in my cheeks. "Yeah... him."

"The one you've never met?" It could have been an accusation. He could have been mocking me – but I thought I detected something like real curiosity in his voice.

"Well, I mean..." I tried to find the right words and failed. "It's complicated. I just feel... really close to him somehow."

He sat up so that he was no longer directly over me, and I couldn't help but relax some. Something about him being so close to me had both intimidated me and... well. I didn't want to think about it. I tried to keep my mind on Chris, and not the way his mouth had felt on mine.

"Have you told him so?"

I shook my head and kept my eyes from his. "I'm not sure he feels the same way, and our friendship is... really important to me. I'm not sure it's worth the risk." I closed my eyes against him, fighting a yawn. Suddenly I just felt so _tired_. "Maybe I will at some point in the future, when I feel I can judge the situation better. I guess..."

Red Mist chuckled to himself, his shoulders shaking gently with his laughter. Leaning forward, he ruffled my hair. "Take care of yourself, Kylie." And before I could call him back, he was gone, shutting the door to my room quietly behind him.

I listened for the sound of his retreating footsteps as they echoed down the hall and through the living room. The front door creaked when he opened it, and I couldn't help but flinch at the sound of it shutting, at the click of the lock.

Pulling his cape more tightly around my shoulders, I tried to understand, tried to rationalize it. No one ever expects terrible things will happen to them, even when terrible things have _already_ happened. Marty had told me that all of them had been mugged at some point before when I asked after Dave's bruises, but I'd been full of that sense of invincibility that young people often have: _it would never happen to me._

And now that it had, I didn't know what to think. With my sense of immortality shattered, I could do nothing but curse my own stupidity – and thank whatever higher power had seen to it that Red Mist had been at the right place at the right time.

Even that was a mystery I couldn't comprehend. I'd certainly appreciated the grand things he and Kick Ass were doing, but I'd never even entertained the idea of meeting either of them. That I had not only _met_ Red Mist but been _rescued_ by him was something I was still having difficulty coming to terms with.

It was like meeting a celebrity or someone equally famous. Fame had a way of making people untouchable and inhuman, almost unreal, far more an idea than a _person_. And yet he'd seemed so tangible and _normal_, so casual when we'd spoken. He was warm when I touched him, real flesh and blood, far more man than dream. He'd smelled of laundry detergent and weed, his eyes bright with an odd sort of humor. Strange how much mystery that mask lent him, how the very idea of him had seemed so faraway and ethereal before.

Thinking about him made my head hurt more than it already did. It also reminded me of my guilt.

In turn, the guilt reminded me how desperate I was to talk to Chris. My cellphone lay next to me on the bed, tucked against my thigh where Red Mist had set it before tucking me in. My hand found it, weakly, running my fingers along the body of it. Its once smooth surface was covered with tiny nicks and chips, undoubtedly from its spill across the pavement. Ironic how it mirrored my sense of safety.

Pulling it out, I couldn't help but feel a little nervous as I hit "2", the number I'd chosen for his speed dial. My fear of talking to him for the first time was, though, was overwhelmed by the anxiety that threatened to smother me if I _didn't_ talk to him.

_**Genovese**_

Alone in the Mist Mobile, I lit up a joint with hands that shook like I was in a fucking earthquake. My mind was a goddamn wreck, unable to focus on anything. I kept seeing myself putting Jon down, kept feeling Kylie's body against my own, trembling with her sobs. I'd been so calm at first, being so close to her, but those hours she had kept me for had made it more and more difficult, and my sense of self-control had all but melted away.

It was everything, from the way she smelled, to the feel of her hair, the heat of her body. That look she had in her eyes, like she was fucking helpless and broken – I ached for it. I fucking _needed_ it. Coming all over her panties had only been a brief reprieve, but one I'd at least expected to last me the rest of the night. Unfortunately I hadn't expected her to fucking _kiss _me.

Not that I hadn't enjoyed it, but it was more that I had enjoyed it too much. In an instant she had stolen all of my restraint, and in that instant I could no longer control myself. Her lips had been so soft, a fleeting touch I had to take – something I had to _claim_.

Her resistance had infuriated me, but I'd savored that flash of anger. Like some sort of wicked fire, I had felt it throbbing in my veins, goading me on, tempting me, taunting me. And I'd wanted so badly to give in, to finish what Jon had tried to start.

But to do so would have ruined the game, and it had been a battle to reclaim my mask. If she noticed, she showed no indication, and for that I was fucking thankful. The last thing I wanted to do was lose her trust. Red Mist was the only way I could have physical interaction with her, and to damage that would mean I'd be left with nothing but D'Amico.

Never mind the implications it would cause for Red Mist and his hunt-down-Kick-Ass-front. I'd lose all my credibility if Red Mist was accused of _raping_ someone. Assuming she'd manage to escape, of course.

Taking a hit of the joint, I pulled my phone from my pocket and frowned at all the calls I'd missed from my old man. No doubt he'd heard of Jon's spontaneous execution if he hadn't already cleaned it up. Neither of us particularly wanted the police involved, though I knew he'd pull strings if need be. This plan was the only fucking thing he had.

Briefly I considered calling him back, but the pot was so relaxing, and I didn't want to harsh my buzz. Instead, I reclined my seat, gazing through the tinted windows up at Kylie's building. I could see the light from her room dancing around the corners of her curtains, taunting me.

God, I'd wanted it. I'd wanted it so badly, more than I could remember wanting anything. Her kiss had been like fucking ecstasy, and the pot was dulling my sense of logic. Why hadn't I fucking taken what I wanted? Why hadn't I fucking taken her? I closed my eyes and sighed through my teeth, the noise sharp and foreign. Fuck.

In my hand, my phone started to vibrate, the feeling of it startling me. Groggily, I looked at the name, expecting to see my old man's number.

But it wasn't. It was Kylie's.

For a moment, I panicked. I'd just been talking to her; what if she recognized my voice? The worst case scenario was her assuming D'Amico was Red Mist. While not quite _terrible, _it would be fucking inconvenient, and inevitably would limit my options. And there was always the chance that discovering D'Amico and Red Mist were the same person would freak her the fuck out.

But phones are strange things, and I recalled how different my own father sounded when we'd speak, his voice all fucking deep and somehow more threatening. Whether it has something to do with the way phones transmit sound or because people have a tendency to talk differently on the phone, I comforted myself with the knowledge that I'd probably manage well enough to be pass unrecognized.

I hit accept on my phone and held it to my ear, consciously making an effort to make my voice sound deeper. "Hey."

There was a long pause, and I thought I heard her take an unsteady breath. "Chris?"

I took another drag of my joint, grinning around it. "Yeah, it's me, Ky. You okay?"

That breath she'd just taken came out in a slow, shaking sigh. "Yeah, I think so. Now. Maybe. I don't know." Her words were slurred and frightened, and it was obvious she wasn't all right. She laughed nervously, as if to cover up her own awkwardness. "You... you don't mind me calling do you?"

"Why do you think I got you the phone?" I cracked the window and flicked the joint through the crack, watching the arc of it, the red head of it burning in the darkness. "To be honest I was a little hurt you didn't want to take advantage of it before now."

"Well I would have if I knew you – "

"If you knew I'd have been okay with it?" I finished for her. "You could have asked."

"I... wanted to, actually, but..." She sounded almost guilty, and I felt a little bad for pushing her.

"Too shy?" I laughed, letting my fingers glide along the inside of my thigh. "Don't worry Ky, I'm only trying to give you a hard time – I'm not really angry. I could have called you, too. I mean, I wanted to. A lot."

"You did?" Even though her voice trembled, I could hear that hopeful note; it was cute. I could imagine her looking up at me, eyes wide and pleading, saying that. It made me painfully aware that I was hard again.

"Yeah, no joke. _A lot_." I wanted to _fuck_ her. A lot. "But I guess I got kinda shy about it too."

She laughed a little. "It's hard to imagine you being shy, Chris. You always seem so... I don't know. In control, or something."

I got a kick out of that. "The internet makes people fearless, Ky. I was just worried that – I don't know – you wouldn't like me as – "

"There's no way I would stop liking you." Her voice was a whisper, cutting me off. I felt a smile curling at the corners of my lips, unbidden but genuine. Still, there was a quaver in her voice, a tremor that reminded me why she was calling.

Dutifully, I indulged her. "You're precious, Ky, and I appreciate it. God knows I love a good ego-stroking. But what's wrong? Your text earlier kinda freaked me the fuck out, and now you sound as if you're gonna burst into tears at any moment."

She took another deep breath. "You know how you don't like Kick Ass and Red Mist?"

I made a point of sounding incredulous. "Uh... what does that have to do with anything?"

Suddenly she was talking ninety-fucking-miles-a-minute. "Well, earlier tonight I got to meet Red Mist, but it wasn't on the best of terms – I mean, he was a gentleman and everything, but it was a really bad situation, and by that I mean someone cornered me in this alleyway because there was this cat and I thought he was hurt because he was crying, and my cat – you know, Tribbles – makes the same noise when I shut his tail in the door, though I really don't do it that often, and yeah, anyways there was a guy there, and he tried to hurt me, Chris, he was really big and scary and he kept saying terrible things and I thought I was going to die – but he didn't try to kill me, Chris, I think he wanted to... he wanted to..."

Her voice broke then, tapering off into those hiccuping sobs I'd had the pleasure of witnessing earlier. I could hear her struggling to catch her breath, the sound strangled through the phone.

I paused for what felt like the appropriate amount of time before continuing. "Goddammit Kylie, are you fucking all right?" I was careful to make make my tone the right amount of indignant and shocked, careful to remind myself that I wasn't supposed to know anything..

"No, Chris, I - well I mean, nothing really happened, I just hurt my head... but Red Mist cleaned it up and I don't know, Chris, I wish you didn't live in Albany. I looked it up once, it's only two hours, you aren't that far away, and I wish you were here, it just feels like a million miles away, like you could be in England or Scotland or goddamn Russia or something, and it'd feel the same, but it's only two hours, and oh my god Chris, I would have rather died than go through what that man... he – "

"Kylie, for the love of God, fucking _breath_." I was legitimately worried she was going to hyperventilate. "Are you home now?"

"Y-yes... I made it home hours ago, because Red Mist took me home." She faltered. "Please don't ever say anything bad about him again, Chris, please..."

"I never had a problem with Red Mist, Ky, it was just that Kick Ass faggot," I reminded her, shaking my head despite myself. Though she seemed to be slowly calming down, it didn't have the same effect on _me _as it had when I'd been with her. In her apartment, I'd been able to appreciate her closeness, been able to take pride in my ability to comfort her. In the car, I felt none of that same satisfaction. The only thing the sound of her tears did _now_ was incite that dark and awful part of me that thrilled at the sound of her fear – that part of me that had drawn me to her at the comic shop what felt like fucking years ago.

It was the same part of me that had flipped on like a goddamn _switch_ when I felt her lips against me, so timid and sweet. The part of me that drove me to claim that kiss, to steal it – and tempted me to steal more. I could imagine the way her screams would sound, bubbling up into a rising, crashing crescendo – and the fantasy alone was so goddamn intense, it very well could have made me _come_ had I not been fighting against it.

As difficult as it was to pretend to be calm, I managed to keep that building aggression from my voice when I continued: "But I'm glad you're all right. I don't know what I'd have fucking done if you'd been hurt."

That wasn't even a lie – it was one hundred percent true, even. If that fucking Jon had stolen what was _mine..._

"But there was something else too," she said, her voice catching on the words.

"What?"

"I – well I... I don't know. I kissed Red Mist."

I gave her the pause I knew she was expecting, taking the time to peel the mask from my face. The air felt cool on my cheeks, and it felt good to be able to run my fingers through my hair again. "What?" I asked her, finally, making a point to sound vaguely pained.

"It wasn't anything serious, it – I – "

"Well," I paused again, for effect. "It probably isn't the right time to say it, but I may be a little bit jealous."

I played it off lightly, but if I'm being totally honest, I _was_ a little jealous – of _myself – _but for reasons she couldn't even hope to comprehend.

The masks were a fun game. They gave me ways to learn about her, excuses to get close to her, and she was all too eager to let me in. I was more than a little surprised by how well it was all working out, and I'd be fucking lying if I said I was disappointed in my progress. But there was something a little frustrating about realizing that her attachment to me was based entirely on the masks and their respective personas.

Not that a lot of it _wasn't_ me. I really _did_ find her interesting. As fucking stupid as it sounds, we had a lot in common, and it was easy to get her to open up to me as D'Amico because I didn't have to try hard to be someone I wasn't. Hiding my depravity was usually all I had to do.

Red Mist got to play the strong and silent hero. Her surrender to _him_ might have had a lot to do with the fact that I was _there_ when she needed someone after she'd almost been fucking _raped_. But again, a lot of that was just holding back that desire to push her to her knees and tell her just where I planned on keeping her.

That web of lies was building itself up so beautifully, and I should have felt nothing but admiration for how well I was succeeding. I did; I did. But I wanted her for myself. As_ myself._

"I'm sorry." Her voice shook me from my thoughts. She sounded so vulnerable, on the verge of tears once more. "It... it didn't mean anything."

"Really?"

"No, it just kind of happened, and – " Her voice cut out for a moment, falling away as if she'd pulled the phone from her head.

"Kylie?"

The seconds before her answer felt like eternity, and when she returned, she was considerably more quiet. "Sorry. I think my aunt is home. I should probably go because – "

"Why?" The incredulity in my tone wasn't faked.

"She doesn't know I have the phone, and I don't really know how to explain the situation to her. She wouldn't understand, she – shit, I have to go. I'm sorry Chris, I'll text you in a few, okay?"

The phone went dead with a click, but I kept holding it against my ear, working my tongue along my teeth. Thinking.

It was hard to pinpoint why I was so invested in her, why I felt like I _needed_ her the way I did. It had been building in me over the course of the past two weeks, and what had started out as a morbid interest had become a fucking _obsession_.

Kylie wasn't the most attractive woman I'd ever met. She was pretty, sure; in that cute, bubbly kind of way, what with her freckles and those long fucking lashes and those soft curls. But she had the body of a twelve year old kid – and all the height that went along with it – despite her age.

But I'd seen a lot of _beautiful _women. When Dad had first started taking me to strip clubs and whore houses, he always sent these long, leggy blondes my way, all heavy, round tits and curvy hips. I'd liked it, too. I mean, they looked fucking good, their pouty lips wrapped around my fingers, working real goddamn hard for those hundreds he'd given me to blow on them.

For the right amount of money, I could even hit them, watching the bruises blossom in their perfect high cheekbones, darkening across their arms. And they always looked so goddamn lovely, sprawled out on the floor, tears and blood smeared across their painted faces, fucking asking me for _more._

But there was nothing real to them, and I never really felt much beyond that sense of grim satisfaction when I'd finally come across their tits. Jerk, spit, over. It felt good, but at the same time, it was mechanical, the act more out of of some kind of fucking necessity. There was no real _desire_ to it, just a nameless kind of _lust_. They could have been faceless. I didn't give a shit about anything besides that brief flash of unease in their eyes when they realized just how _much_ I got off on the way they squirmed or squeaked when I hurt them.

Kylie wasn't nameless, though, and she wasn't a fucking _whore_. Her innocence wasn't faked, and her grasp on sexuality was limited to silly little girl fantasies that she obviously felt _guilty _for having. Beyond that, she was a fucking _person. _I never made a habit of asking anything about the sluts that entertained me – I didn't care. I didn't want to _humanize_ them. I _wanted _to _objectify_ them.

Conversely, I wanted to know everything about Kylie with a hunger that rivaled even my lust for her. And every time I found out we had something in common, I couldn't help but feel a thrill. We were _alike _in all the right ways, and different in the ones that _mattered_.

The light to my dark, white to my black. Prey to the predator.

I let my phone fall from my hand onto the empty passenger seat beside me and pulled that small bit of fabric from my pocket: her panties. My eyes wandered back to the window of her bedroom – the light now extinguished – and I smirked, my hand drifting down between my legs.

It was time for round two.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong> Ironically this was initially gonna be a short chapter; but writing Chris is just too much _fun_. :c

Anyways, I wanted to thank anyone who's still reading this far, cause I imagine psychostalker!Chris isn't er'body's cuppa tea. :v I just enjoy writing those psychostalker types too much. Also wanted to thank Makokam for being a generally all-around cool dude and giving me a plug on his awesome story "Precocious Crush". It's the entire reason I ship DavexMindy nao. You too, Rurrlock; your kind reviews always brighten my day!


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